


Change My Life Again

by Eugara



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amputation, Bodyswap, Bottom Sam, Case Fic, Established Relationship, F/M, Genderswap, M/M, Top Dean, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-01-11 08:24:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 115,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eugara/pseuds/Eugara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 8.  All Sam wants to do is take a tiny break for his brother's birthday, but a case that Dean refuses to pass up and a run-in with a cursed sword sends the Winchesters Quantum Leap-ing through other people's lives.  Sam just wants to get back to their own bodies.  Dean bets Sam Beckett had a much easier time of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enough of a Reason to Want to Get Away

“It’s gotta be the cop. The partner.”

Dean makes an unpleasant snorting noise and jiggles the leg his younger brother is currently wrapped around. Like a goddamn cat. If Dean starts sneezing, he knows who to blame. “No way it’s the cop. Red Herring, man. If anything, it’s probably the boyfriend." 

Sam curls his arms tighter and rests his head on Dean’s knee. “That doesn’t even make any sense.” His words are a little garbled from his face being smushed against Dean’s shin. “He hasn’t done a single suspicious thing the whole episode.” 

“Exactly.” Dean stretches back against the headboard and brings his elbows up to mitigate the crick in his neck. For the past half-hour, he’s been walking a fine line between keeping his lower body still enough to make Sam happy and leaving enough space between his bent knees so that he can still see the crappy motel TV from his vantage point at the head of the bed. “This far in the show, any of the obvious suspects are out. And considering that we’ve only got like fifteen minutes left, it’s time to start looking at the most innocent character.” Dean rolls his eyes, but Sam isn’t looking at him and therefore isn’t paying attention to Dean’s important critique of NCIS:SVU:LA:XYZ or whatever the fuck it is they’re watching. So he audibly scoffs instead. “The hack writers figure it’s a clever plot twist if Middle America Soccer Mom doesn’t figure it out before Officer Crew Cut does. So they just pick the least likely suspect and throw a crap motive on at the end of the episode. _Voila_. Brilliant Storytelling.” 

Sam snorts and twists his upper body around until he can make out Dean’s face. It looks uncomfortable. “I thought you hated cop procedurals anyway.”

Dean groans and pulls his legs free to rest on top of his brother’s back. “I do.”

Sam sets his expression somewhere between ‘I’m talking to a retarded child’ and ‘I will never understand the mysteries of my brother’s screwed-up head’. “Then why are we watching this?”

“I wanna see if the boyfriend did it.”

Sam stretches up to grab for the remote. “I’m changing the channel.”

“No. Don’t you fucking dare.” Dean scoops the remote up and tosses it to the other bed, then clamps his legs down before his brother can go after it. “I wanna see if I’m right, and it’s my birthday so you have to do what I say.” He growls as Sam shifts under his calves. “And I say, we’re seeing if the boyfriend did it.”

“Your birthday was two days ago.” Sam wriggles in an attempt to get free, but is apparently too exhausted to make much of a go at it and eventually slumps back down in surrender. “It’s Saturday. I don’t have to do shit.”

“Whatever, it’s my birthday weekend. Which still counts.” His brother quirks an eyebrow. “Yes it _does_ , Sam. Shut up and watch the terrible show.” Sam tries to hide his amused smile by turning his face into the bed, but Dean catches it anyway, which means he wins. Plus, their new arrangement has Dean’s legs stretched over his brother like the world’s comfiest footstool, and it’s a lot more forgiving on his neck.

They finish out the rest of the episode. And when Crew Cut and Hot Lady Cop bust in to find the boyfriend tying his latest victim to a chair, Dean digs his heels into Sam’s side. “What'd I tell ya, Sammy? I am the master of crap TV.” 

Sam shimmies out from under Dean’s legs and reaches over to turn off the set by hand. “It’s truly terrifying how good at that you are.”

Dean lifts his shoulders into his humblest shrug. “I am the world’s greatest detective.”

Sam laughs and heads over to his backpack, pawing through for his bathroom stuff. “I’m pretty sure that’s Batman.”

“Sammy.” Dean pulls himself into a sitting position, then solemnly rests his hands on his knees and pitches his voice as low as it can go. “There’s something very important I have to tell you…”

His brother snorts, then gives up on his conditioner in order to lean over and press a soft kiss to Dean’s lips. Sam smirks and glances down to meet his eyes. “If you _were_ Batman, I feel like our jobs would be a lot easier.”

“It’s very important for me to maintain my secret identity.” Dean grins and swipes a thumb down Sam’s sideburn, picking up a streak of leftover greasepaint. “Word gets out, and every chick in the lower forty-eight is gonna want a piece of me. I’d never get a day’s rest.”

Sam levels a dull stare at him. His tone is dryer than toast. “I couldn’t even _begin_ to imagine.”

Dean chuckles and rubs his thumb over his brother’s lower lip, spreading the red paint out like lipstick. “That’s a good look for you, kiddo. You could totally be my Joker.”

“What?  _Dean_.” Sam sputters and attacks his mouth with the back of his hand. “Seriously, it’s like you’re twelve years old.”

“That’d be thirteen, this past Thursday.”

Sam’s ire melts at the reminder and he good-naturedly rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Happy Birthday, you lunatic.”

Dean tugs his brother down by the back of the neck and hums against his jaw. “You know what I want for my birthday wish?”

“No.”

Dean pulls back to gauge Sam’s response. “Is that a ‘no’, you don’t know? Or a ‘no’, no sex?” He pauses for a moment. “’Cause the answer was sex.”

Sam gives him a look. (Which is actually pretty fair, because like ninety percent of the time Dean’s answer is sex.) “That was a ‘no’, no sex. I’m exhausted.” He leans back down to sigh into Dean’s temple. “I am _literally_ too tired for sex. Which is ridiculous.”

Dean huffs out a laugh, then lets go of his brother to fall back onto the bed. “Yeah. LARPing. Who knew, right?”

Sam hums in agreement and makes his way into the bathroom. “If I never see mead again, it’ll be too soon.”

“I dunno, I kinda liked it.” Dean tugs at his jeans without lifting the upper half of his body any more than he needs to. “Shame they don’t sell it at your typical 24-Hour Liquor.” He finally kicks off his pants and flattens out into an exhausted sprawl. “Maybe Charlie could hook us up.”

“What the fuck would you do with a giant jug of mead?” Sam’s words are muffled due to the mouth full of toothbrush and running tap, but the bitchiness comes through with perfect reception.

Dean lugs himself to his feet and pads in after his brother. “Well, drinking it would be my first option.” He reaches around Sam to grab his own toothbrush and fixes his brother’s reflection with a look. “Although I imagine smacking you in the head with it would also be pretty satisfying.” Sam smiles and ducks his head at the well-deserved retort, and Dean rests an elbow on his brother’s shoulder in order to twist open the toothpaste. It’s more for show than comfort, as Sam’s shoulder is a few inches too high for any actual convenience, but Dean’s taking that to his grave. “Plus, _mead_ , y’know? It’s like, _mead_.”

Sam spits and rolls his eyes. Again. At this rate, Dean’s surprised they haven’t fallen out of his head by now. “I worry about your mental state.”

“Yeah? I worry about your face.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sam stretches his arms up for what feels like the millionth time today, but it still isn’t doing anything for the tangle of knots in his back. Fucking Moondoor, man. It wasn’t so much the ‘fighting’ (which mainly consisted of whacking dentists with fake swords and throwing beanbags at accountants until they fell over ‘dead’) as the feast afterwards. Sam had been crammed onto an uncomfortable wooden bench between Dean and Charlie, and it was actually pretty fun to listen to her wax poetic about the virtues of some Firefly show. But the later it got, the more Dean’s hands had started wandering under the table, and Sam had spent most of the night with his left knee awkwardly scrunched up against the wood so that their brand-new friend wouldn’t inadvertently catch a glimpse of Dean being a reckless asshole. So now his back was killing him.

Dean thumps into the chair across from him and slides over a tray of cheap Mexican food. “What’s funnier, Sammy? Taco Bob’s,”  he gestures around appropriately, “or Pita Pan back up in Astoria?”

Sam pokes at the unhealthy mess in front of him that’s supposed to vaguely resemble a taco salad, then gives up and starts with his Coke. “Well, one of the menu items here is a ‘funny taco’. That seems…funny. I guess.”

Dean chews, and takes the time to actually ponder Sam’s contribution before proclaiming, “Nah.” He shakes his head. “Gotta go with the pun I think.”

Sam does his best to fight off a smile at his brother’s deliberate contrariness. They had tried to make some actual headway out of Farmington Hills last night, but soon realized that they were both too tired to keep driving. They never even made it out of Michigan. They’d headed west for a couple of hours, but once Dean had seen the turn-off sign for Kalamazoo, Sam knew the battle had already been lost. They’d driven around the city for a stupidly unnecessary amount of time too, because Dean had refused to stay in any motel that didn’t have ‘Kalamazoo’ on the sign. And once they’d finally gotten settled in and actually had a peaceful evening for once, Sam had even dared to imagine that there might be some approximation of calm in the immediate future. Which was a dumb thing to expect, because Dean wouldn’t let them get lunch today from any restaurant that didn’t have a name as equally ridiculous as the city itself. Hence, Taco Bob’s. 

Sam sneaks a glance at his brother. He’s contentedly grazing on his taco, and Sam doesn’t have it in him to hold any grudges. It feels like they haven’t been in good moods since Oklahoma City with that cartoon thing, which was like two months ago. So, who is Sam to rain on Dean’s idiotic parade? Plus, it _is_ still technically his birthday weekend. “Peter Pan.” Dean looks up at his outburst. “ _Pita_ Pan. I dunno. Is that funny?”

Dean shrugs and tosses the last bite of processed meat into his bottomless maw. “It’s a joke at least.” He sniffs. “Sort of.”

Sam frowns and reluctantly decides to tackle the dubious blob of grease that calls itself a salad. “Y’know, Erskine said that puns were the lowest form of wit. And ‘therefore, the foundation of all wit’.”

“Pretty sure the foundation of all wit is a dude getting cracked in the balls.” Dean waggles his eyebrows and Sam laughs despite himself. 

He raises a hand to cover his smile and says, “I’m not sure that’s _wit,_ ” but he concedes the point anyway.

“I’m not making it up!” The shrill, _dramatic_ protest slices through the mundane ambience that is Taco Bob’s at noon, and Sam discreetly twists in his seat—as do most of the other patrons—to catch a glimpse of the commotion. A young woman (late teens, maybe early twenties, and visibly upset) is desperately clutching at the corner of a table while an older couple, her parents probably, do their best to soothe her. There are tears in her eyes now, and her plaintive objecting is starting to hit ear-piercing levels as she snarls at her family. “Bryant is my _friend!_  You think I’m just gonna make that shit up?” Her dark hair sweeps around her like a curtain when she slams her palms on the table.

“ _Marie_.” The mother’s hiss is quiet, but reeks of an expectation of obedience. “You are making a _scene_.” 

Sam turns away from the family drama and catches his brother’s eyes in silent conversation. Dean lifts his eyebrows to say,  _“Aren’t you glad that’s not us? Look at that Married With Children crap. Normal life’s overrated if you ask me.”_ And Sam diligently ignores the twinge of—not regret, but something—that passes through him whenever he’s reminded of the last year.  

He’d chosen Dean over Amelia, and he doesn’t have any misgivings about his decision. It was…the right thing to do. But Sam can’t help the dull pang of longing that’s always weakly fluttered at the word ‘normal’. The ache is much quieter now, exponentially really, and he dreads the very real possibility that most of his pining after Amelia these past few months might have been due to the fact that she was off-limits. Because they weren’t _happy_ when they were together _per se_ , but they were…something. Comfortable? Functioning? They were alive, and that’s what mattered. Sam had never felt whole, but he sometimes felt normal, and that was worth a lot. He’d loved her. He’d sure proclaimed that loudly, and often enough, to Dean whenever he got the chance. And it is love.  _Was_ love. He thinks. At least, he’s pretty certain. 

She’d saved his life, that’s for sure. Had he never hit Riot, had he never met Amelia, had she never forced him to take responsibility for his actions and given him a reason to wake up day after day… Well, Sam’s almost positive he would have tried it again eventually. He’s weak like that. Probably wouldn’t have made it past two weeks. And Dean would have come back to find a wrecked car and a hole in the ground instead of a brother. 

He shakes the woe-is-me cobwebs out of his mental attic and centers his attention back on his brother, but Dean is now laser-focused on the Maury Pauvich reenactment over Sam’s shoulder. Dean’s not looking directly at them, but his gaze is precisely concentrated on a point just off of Sam’s face. Which means he’s listening to every single word they say, while looking for all the world like he isn’t interested in anything other than his table mate. Sam flirts with being offended for a brief second, but ends up furrowing his brow and eavesdropping as well. Because anything that’s got his brother this invested is probably important. 

Unfortunately for Sam’s eardrums, the girl seems to be going for the Guinness Record in dog-whistling. “Professor Yamada told us about it! And he’s not a liar, he’s a _genius_.” There’s a wet sniff and a rustling of fabric. “And then Bryant was talking about it last Monday, and now he’s _gone!_  He wasn’t in class all week and I know that it’s because of Masamune!”

“Now, Lambykins…” Deeper voice, must be the father. “You know there’s no such thing as magic.”

“Harold!” There’s that sharp hiss again. “Don’t encourage her!”

“Marie-nee-bee.” Father’s voice. “This Mama Mia is just a story, okay? It’s a folklore class, it’s not real.”

“Oh my god, Dad. It’s _Masamune_. You sound, like, really insensitive to Eastern culture right now, okay?”

“Smushy-face—”

“No! Like, Bryant’s one thing, but it’s super Imperialist of you to go around blasting over everyone’s history with that Capitalistic Western cannon. Just because the stories aren’t American doesn’t mean they aren’t just as important to Japanese culture. Okay?”

“Of course, sweetheart.” There’s a self-deprecating chuckle. “It’s just all these foreign words, they’re kind of a jumble to me, you know?”

“Oh my god, that’s so racist. Do you hear yourself?” Sam winces as she slides back into screeching levels. “Professor Yamada says people need to open their minds. And I bet if you read a single book on our syllabus, you’d get it too. Just because _America_ doesn’t believe in magic, it doesn’t make it any less so for other cultures.” 

“But, Marie—”

“And don’t say it isn’t real when Bryant is gone! Okay? He’s actually, literally _gone!”_

“ _Marie_.” That’s the mother again. “You are embarrassing everyone here. We can talk about it in the car.” 

Sam makes to get up and throw away the remainder of his lunch, but Dean strikes out like a rattlesnake and clamps a hand down on his wrist. He raises a questioning eyebrow, but Dean sweeps up their trash and casually saunters past Marie’s table on the way to toss it. He pauses for a brief second, allowing the family to pass by him as they exit into the parking lot, then grins as he drops back down into his chair.

Dean doesn’t say a word, just continues to smile until Sam finally gives in and asks, “You think it’s a hunt?”

“Damn right, I think it’s a hunt.” Dean slouches back in his seat, all feline grace and sharp teeth after Purgatory. “Kid goes missing. Other, _louder_ kid won’t stop talking about magic? Seems pretty cut and dry to me.”

Sam sighs and mentally bids farewell to his uneventful weekend. “So…what? You wanna find the professor? What’d she say, Yamada?”

“Yeah. Better look into that Mamunia too." 

Sam snorts into his drink. “I think she said Masamune.” He scrunches up his face. “Isn’t ‘Mamunia’ a McCartney song?” 

Dean fixes him with a blank stare. “Pretty sure I’d remember a Beatles song with a name as dumb as _‘Mamunia’_.”

“Wings.” Dean remains incredulous and unblinking. “Him and his wife, you know—” Sam bats a hand at him. “Fuck it, never mind.”

“Dude, I know Wings. What I don’t know is why _you_ know any of their crappy-ass music.” He shakes his head as he pushes away from the table. “Seriously, _so_ gay.” 

Sam resolutely ignores his brother’s, rather hypocritical, insults as he catches his stride. “So how do we even know which university she goes to?”

Dean simply smirks in response and flips a small badge pin up between his fingers. He must have swiped it from Marie’s bag when he ‘innocently’ passed by the table earlier. “Go Broncos.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

 

After the twenty-millionth scene of the supposedly deadly samurai having another pleasant, boring chat, Dean mutes the TV. He’d been channel surfing to waste time until Sam returned from the library, and had stopped on the samurai flick because it had seemed appropriate. But despite the tone of terror and reverence with which the peasants spoke of the main character, he pretty much came off just as useless as you’d expect a blind guy to be.

Dean sighs and falls back on the ugly, gray bed of their ugly, gray room in the ugly, gray Kalamazoo Inn Motel. They’d stopped by Western Michigan University earlier, but Professor Yamada (who, it turned out, teaches a class on Folklore and Samurai Culture in Feudal Japan) didn’t hold office hours on Sundays, and most of the co-eds were too wary to gossip about a student’s disappearance with two suspicious thirty-somethings. Or, almost-thirty-something in Sam’s case. It was a complete dead-end, so Sam had insisted on checking out the library to look up the Mamunrah or whatever the fuck it was called. But, they weren’t allowed to use the college library without being students, and even if Dean planned on scrounging up some fake IDs, credulity could only be strained so far. They’d tried for ‘research assistants’, but the stick-up-her-ass octogenarian in charge refused to let them in without a written request from a professor, which they couldn’t get because it was a weekend, and the whole thing just ended up being a colossal waste of time. A shining example of bureaucracy at its finest. So, Sam headed off to the regular, old city library and Dean headed back to the room because he’d rather pull his teeth out than deal with another fucking librarian today.

The click of the door unlocking pulls Dean out of his silent tantrum, but he can’t muster up quite enough energy to move the arm dramatically slung over his eyes. Maybe Sam will take pity on him and handle all of the research from now on. Dean’s shit at it anyway. Plus, he more than handles his share of the badass, impressive, killing-things stuff.

“Did you get the vapors?”

Dean squints one eye open and fixes his brother with a dirty look.

Sam chuckles to himself and drops his armful of paperwork on the table. “Just saying. You look like Mr. Darcy turned down your invitation to the ball.”

“Fuck you, Sam. I’m suffering.”

His brother laughs and sits next to him on the bed. “Yeah? What are you watching—er, _not_ watching?” 

“Zatoichi: On the Road.” Dean groans and pushes himself upright. “It’s supposed to be a kick-ass samurai movie. But it’s total shit.”

Sam tilts his head as he studies the muted film. “Why is he pissed at the hot chick?”

“Her husband was hired to kill him.” Dean uses his brother’s shoulder as leverage to stand, then heads over to Sam’s research. “But he doesn’t even do anything about it, he just _talks_. All the time. To everyone. No slicing and dicing at all.” He pokes through the mess of Sam’s papers.

His brother is still fixed on the TV. “I dunno, I think it looks kinda good.”

Dean tosses him a disbelieving look, but Sam isn’t paying attention. “Yeah, you _would_ like it,” he grumbles under his breath, then grabs the remote and turns off the movie before Sam decides to unmute it. “Hunt, Sammy? Important things. Remember?”

Sam sighs and runs a hand through his _ridiculous_ hair. Seriously ridiculous. His brother is skirting the Kevin Sorbo edge, and it’s getting to the point that Dean might just snap and go after it with a pair of clippers in the middle of the night. “Yeah. So…it’s a sword.”

“Morimoto?”

“ _Masamune_ , yeah.” Sam rubs at his thigh and glances up at Dean. “Well, actually he’s the sword maker. Apparently there were two legendary swordsmiths in 14th century Japan. Masamune,” Sam gestures to the paperwork, “and this other guy, Muramasa.”

“Bet they got mixed up at parties all the time.”

Sam blatantly ignores his hilarious comment and continues on. “Basically, the lore says that Masamune’s swords were considered perfect. ‘The mark of a peaceful and calm warrior’.” He raises his hands to add the appropriate finger quotes. “He was a priest, and I guess the righteousness just kinda—I don’t know—flowed into the swords as well. Made them holy.”

Dean makes a face. “Creepy. But carry on.”

Sam laughs and nods in agreement. “Yeah. But then there was this other guy, Muramasa. And he was apparently either a contemporary or a student of Masamune’s.” Sam wiggles his hand. “The lore’s a little vague. Anyway, his blades were the opposite. They were considered bloodthirsty and evil, and legend says that a warrior wouldn’t be able to re-sheathe it without drawing blood, even if that meant his own.” 

Dean rubs a hand over his chin. “So, what? The samurais shelled out for a shiny pig sticker, but ended up getting whammied into the full hara-kiri?”

“Exactly. And if you didn’t fulfill the sword’s unending bloodlust, you’d be forced to commit suicide as well.”

“Sounds like they got the short end of that stick—or, uh, sword.” Sam snorts and moves closer so that he can shuffle through his paperwork, and Dean shifts to make room. He crosses his arms and rests his ass on the table’s edge. “So, I bet the Masamune groupies had a better time of it then?”

“Seems like.” Sam pulls out a photocopy of what looks like an old woodcut. “And get this, apparently Muramasa got pretty jealous of his rival’s success.”

“Makes sense.” 

Sam gets that stupidly excited look on his face. The one he gets whenever he’s about to pull the linchpin on a myth and watch the whole thing come tumbling into place. “So, he challenged Masamune to a contest in order to determine who was the greater smith. They each stuck one of their prized swords in a river to see what they would cut, using only the current.” He pulls out another sheet of paper, which is apparently useful to him, but Dean can’t make heads or tails of it. “Muramasa’s blade cut _everything_. Leaves, fish, even the water and air itself.” He slides another page up next to the first. “While Masamune’s sword cut _nothing_. Leaves slid off of it, it wouldn’t even nick the fish, and the very air and water parted around it instead of being cut.”

Dean gives him a look. “That sounds like a pretty crappy sword. You said this guy was the best in Japan?”

“No, but see—” Sam points to a figure on the page, “a monk had been watching the whole contest from the riverbank. And Muramasa was celebrating, ‘cause he thought he’d won—" 

“That seems fair.” Dean is still completely underwhelmed by Sam’s never-ending account of history’s shittiest sword.

Sam jabs him with one of his stupidly pointy elbows. “ _Listen_. Muramasa _thought_ he won, but the monk came over and proclaimed Masamune the winner.”

“Did this particular monk like to partake in copious amounts of hooch?”

Sam rolls his eyes and continues on as if Dean hadn’t said anything. “Masamune’s sword was considered greater because it wouldn’t cut anything that wasn’t evil or deserving, even including the air. Holy magic, I guess.”

“So they were what,” Dean makes a face, “ _sacred_ leaves?”

“I don’t know— _innocent_ leaves, maybe?” Sam shrugs. “Point is, Muramasa considered the judgment an unfair slight against him.” 

“Yeah, I can see why.” 

Sam fixes him with a look. “Dean, would you please stop siding with the bad guy?”

He tosses his brother an irritating grin. “I calls ‘em like I sees ‘em.”

Sam sets his jaw in order to hide the beginnings of a smile, and clears his throat. Very seriously. Because he’s _not_ amused. It’s adorable. “Like I was saying, Muramasa was shamed after the outcome of the contest. Masamune was considered the greater swordsmith throughout the country and the shogun at the time banned all of Muramasa’s blades for being evil.” 

“Fuck, man. Seems a bit like overkill.” 

“Well, they _were_ cursed.”

Dean rubs at the back of his neck. “…Yeah.”

Sam’s hand slides up Dean’s back and takes over the task of kneading his neck. “Are you gonna listen? Or keep heckling?”

Dean moans and as his eyes roll back in his head. “No, I’ll shut up. I swear.” He leans further into his brother’s ministrations. “Mmm, just keep doing that.”

Sam lets out an amused breath. “Are you this sore just from LARPing?” Dean considers answering the question, but Sam’s hands feel damn good and it’s not worth the effort. So he just sighs and leans in more. “You know, my back is killing me too,” Sam snipes. “If you wanted to return the favor or anything.” 

Dean hums and rolls his head forward. “Well, it is _my_ birthday…”

“You’re a dick.”

“Finish your story.”

Sam scoffs, but doesn’t stop massaging. He’s probably worried that without proper encouragement Dean will start interrupting him again. Dean grins. He would too, if only to give Sam a reason to continue what he’s doing. “So, Muramasa’s on the outs now and he’s pissed and he figures that Masamune’s the one to blame. So he curses his name. And I mean _literally_. He states that any blade bearing the title of Masamune is forever cursed to ‘cut the deserving’ for all time. Kind of a poetic justice thing, I guess. To the nth degree.” Sam gives his neck one final squeeze, then drops his hand to the table. “So, that’s the story. And as best I figure, that’s what the girl in the restaurant was talking about.”

Dean stretches out the rest of his kinks, then slumps bonelessly against his brother’s side. “So you think we’re looking for one of this dude’s cursed swords?”

Sam shrugs. “Near as I can guess.” He pushes Dean away from his shoulder. “And get off me, we’re working.”

“Yeah, I know we’re working. Shut up, it’s my rule.” Dean slinks back to an appropriate distance and tries not to look like he’s sulking. “So where are we gonna find an ancient Japanese sword in Kalamazoo, Michigan? Museum?” 

Sam snaps his fingers and points at him. “That’s what I thought at first, but listen to this—” He pulls out another sheet of paper, more modern this time. “The dude’s most famous sword was called the ‘Honjo Masamune’. It was a national treasure, passed from shogun to shogun, and it’s potentially worth millions. But in 1946, local police handed the sword over to a sergeant in the army. An _American_ named Coldy Bimore. He took it home with him, and it hasn’t been seen since.”

“Coldy Bimore?” Dean gives him a skeptical look. “Sounds like an ice cream mascot.”

“It’s probably a phonetic misspelling of the guy’s name, which would explain why I couldn’t dig anything up on him. But it does give us a place to start looking.” 

Sam has that excited puppy look on his face again, so Dean plays along. “And where would that be, Sensei?”

Sam leans back against the table and looks decidedly smug. “Well, if you were an American sergeant who just got back from overseas, where would your first stop be?” 

“Brothel?”

“Fine,” Sam grits through his teeth, “your second stop?”

Dean tugs at his ear. “Dunno. Home, I guess, if he had a family. But with a weapon like that? I’m thinking…army base?”

His brother lights up. Ding ding ding, _correct_. Dean half expects Pat Sajak to show up and give him a free spin, but Sam just beams at him. “Fort Custer Training Center. It’s one of the most heavily used facilities in the Midwest and it was established in 1917, so it’s almost certain Bimore came through there in the 40s. If he _was_ from Michigan, which would seemingly be the case if that Bryant kid’s really missing.”

“So we throw on our fed suits and start asking questions?” Dean lifts an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure the CID handles shit like that. You know, army base and all.”

Sam bites at his lip. “Any way you can doctor us some fake badges?”

Dean sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. “Not tin ones like they’d use. That’s why FBI’s easy, Sammy. It’s all plastic ID crap. I could put a call out for some, but we’d never get ‘em in time.”

“Okay, then. Plan B.” Sam pulls out his laptop from under the mess of pages and flips it open. “Fort Custer’s attached to a recreation area, like for hiking and camping and stuff. We go through that way, then find a spot to hop a fence and make like recruits.”

Dean laughs and leans in over his brother’s shoulder to watch him bring up Google Maps. “You really think you’re gonna be able to pull off ROTC with that haircut?"

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

 

“Y’know, I never got why people do this for fun.” 

Sam ducks to avoid another branch his brother sends springing back in his direction and swats away a particularly persistent gnat. Dean, for his part, continues obliviously tromping ahead. An apologetic glance would be nice, but Sam’s learned not to expect too much from his brother as far as courtesy goes. “It’s relaxing. You commune with nature." 

Dean pulls the collar of his coat a little higher against the January chill. “Yeah, well I’d rather commune with a heated motel room and a forty-ounce.” 

He tosses a pinecone over his shoulder that Sam has to sidestep, then Sam jerks back again so as not to be thwacked in the face by yet another stick. “Dean, maybe I should lead.” His brother studiously ignores him and loudly tramps through another thicket of dried twigs. “Jesus. You’re about as quiet as a drunk rhinoceros. Didn’t you learn anything from Bobby?" 

Dean flips him off without looking. Because god forbid anyone who actually knows what they’re doing should take point. Although, Dean’s surliness probably has more to do with the fact that Sam dared mention Bobby’s name. His brother deigns to honor him with a flat glare. “What, are you afraid I’m gonna scare off Bambi?" he mocks. "Don’t worry, Sam. Any fluffy woodland creatures should naturally be drawn to your feminine aura.” Sam kicks a flurry of boot-crunched leaves at Dean, but they scatter and settle before making any real distance. “Why don’t you try singing something? That always seems to work in the cartoons.”

And that is _it_. Sam has reached the level of needling asshattery he can take for one afternoon, so he snaps his foot forward to kick Dean’s ankle out from under him, and his brother faceplants into the undergrowth like a felled tree. Sam would probably feel more guilty about it if the surprised squawking noise Dean made wasn’t quite so hilarious. He strolls past the supine sprawl of his brother’s limbs and forcibly takes the lead.

“I was kidding.” Dean spits out a mouthful of sticks and who knows what else. Good. Sam hopes it’s gross. “Sam, it was a joke. C’mon.” Dean has the audacity to laugh as he picks himself up and trails after Sam. “Lighten up, princess.” He balks under Sam’s laser-gaze and clears his throat as a pitiful attempt at solemnity. “I mean _Sam_.” The thinly-veiled amusement on his brother’s face isn’t doing anything to fool Sam into thinking Dean is actually reticent, but he should probably accept the pathetic pseudo-apology for what it is.

Sam skims his eyes over the dried leaf bits and dirt clods stuck to his brother’s stubble as he decides whether or not to forgive him. “You look like Clayface.” 

Dean snorts at the reference and tugs his bandana out of his jacket pocket to rub at the worst of it. “But hot, right?” He glances up at Sam over the faded cloth. It’s funny, but Sam can’t actually recall when it used to be black. “Sammy?”

Sam peers up at the tree cover, squinting to avoid the blinding light of the late afternoon sun. Now that Dean isn’t yammering, the forest air is periodically pierced by sharp chirps of birdsong, probably flycatchers. Sam sighs as he watches the small birds flit from branch to branch. “Yeah.” Dean grins insufferably. “Shut up.”

Dean thumps his shoulder as he passes and struts on by. “C’mon, honey. We’re almost there.” Sam wants to protest the nickname, just on principle, but thinks better of it. He’d put up more of a fight, but when Dean is in one of his moods like this, it just isn’t worth the effort. 

So, Sam decides to be the bigger man (ha) and dutifully follows behind his brother as he clears the tree line. He stops and takes a moment to observe the aesthetics of Dean’s silhouette juxtaposed against the glare of the open clearing, then steps up beside him. They both stand there silently as they survey the four-lane asphalt separating them from their goal. Surprisingly, the only barrier around the barracks of the actual training center is a short, chain-link fence. Sam furrows his brow and says, “Not much of a ‘keep out’ is it?” He glances at Dean. “Guess they’re not too concerned about trespassers.” 

Dean shrugs. “Maybe they should have been. This dumb kid we’re after probably only got himself in trouble ‘cause their security’s so laughable.”

Sam guiltily scratches at the back of his head. “Dude, I don’t think this place is as hard to get into as we thought. We probably coulda just walked in through the front.” He brings his hand down to rub at the back of his neck. “They might even do tours and shit.”

Dean gives him a thin, strained smile. “Well, we did get to experience a _lovely_ nature walk.” Sarcasm seeps out of every word. “Nothing I love more than unnecessary hiking.”

Sam grimaces. Dean’s going to whine for hours about the indignity of it all until he feels that his brother has suffered as much as he sees fit. Which is going to be a lot. Sam looks up the road, but there don’t seem to be many cars passing this way. “Well, we’re here now. Might as well.” 

Dean grunts in agreement and they both head across the road. Dean offers to give him a boost once they reach the fence, but Sam ignores it in favor of hopping over himself. His brother simply shrugs and follows suit, and Sam shoves away the paradoxical flash of resentment at Dean thinking he needs the help and guilt at turning down the offer. He turns away from his brother and scans the grounds. “So, what now?”

“Did you see if they had an armory on the map or anything?” 

“Yeah, should be right over there.” He raises a hand to point off to the left. “Not sure how we’re gonna get past the gate though.”

Dean slides up behind the flat, white paneling of the closest building and peers around the corner. Apparently the coast is clear because he takes off almost before Sam can catch up. He keeps one eye on Sam as he glances over the rest of the center. “The kid got in, right? That means there must be some way through.” Sam didn’t think about it like that, but he supposes it’s a fair point. Dean sidles along another corner before skimming across the next pathway. “Where are all the jarheads anyway?”

Sam trails behind him, and catches his brother under the shoulder as he trips over a divot in the dry grass. “It _is_ a Sunday, maybe it’s their day off. And would you watch where you’re going? You’re gonna break your fucking neck.” Dean blinks at his overly intense tone, but Sam has never quite gotten over the unending Tuesdays of Broward County. And that death in particular was just gruesomely stupid enough to stick in his head. Dean gives him a look, and Sam’s not sure if his brother can see right through him, but he nods and proceeds to place his feet a little more carefully. Maybe he thinks Sam’s still just a little clingy after their year apart. 

They pick their way over to the armory without a single hitch and Sam starts nervously setting the dial on his ‘this is way too easy’ meter. Dean scans his gaze over the heavy, padlocked chains wrapped around the closed gate, then glances up in a silent question.

Sam scrunches his face up. “Maybe the back?”

“Sure, let’s give it a shot,” Dean sighs. “More fun than a barrel full o’ monkeys.” 

Sam leads the way this time around the back of the building. If the rear entrance is sealed just as tightly, he has no idea how they’re supposed to get in. Even their strongest bolt cutters won’t make a dent in metal this thick. But…apparently they’re in luck, because the much more reasonably-sized chains on the back door have been clipped clean through.

Dean lets out a pleased sound. “Hey, whaddya know? This kid could make a decent addition to The A-Team.”

“I’ll make sure to let Hannibal know the next time I see him.” Sam glances back once more before sliding through the doors. And it turns out that the inside of the armory is mostly unimpressive. It looks more like a run-of-the-mill warehouse than an arsenal depot, but the darkened space is large enough that it’ll take a little while to locate the kid.

Dean shuffles up behind him and bumps their shoulders together. “Where’s all the hardware?”

“Probably in these crates. I guess the stuff all gets shelved when they’re not using it.” Sam stares up at the towering stacks of boxes. “It’s gonna be a bitch to find one sword in all of this.”

“Well, let’s just hope that Bryant found it first.” Dean heads off around a random corner and Sam picks one in the opposite direction.

He gets only a few steps away before calling back to Dean, “Don’t touch anything!”

There’s faint reply of, “Dude, I’m not an idiot!” and only then does he feel safe enough to continue on his way. 

Sam roams through the imposing walls of crates and narrow cement aisles for a decent amount of time, and finds bupkis. And he’s canvassed a fair portion of his side of the warehouse before he can hear the faint call of Dean’s voice shouting at him through the boxes of weaponry. It takes him a few more minutes to navigate his way back to where he thinks Dean is. The rumble of his brother’s voice bounces off the empty cement like an echo chamber and picking out exactly where it’s coming from quickly becomes an irritating challenge. But Sam eventually finds his way to where Dean is standing, arms crossed and sternly scowling at the body at his feet.

“Is he dead?" 

Dean glances up at Sam’s approach. “Nope. But Grabby McGrabberton here touched something he sure as shit shouldn’t have.” 

Sam tiptoes his way over to the kid’s prone form. Now that he’s closer, he can see that Bryant is definitely alive. He looks about eighteen, unexpectedly young to have Macguyvered his way into an army base, but kids were surprisingly stupid sometimes. His dyed-black hair covers his eyes and his glasses have tumbled off his nose to rest on the concrete beside him, but his chest is fluttering with every shallow breath and Sam can hear the tiny gusts of air fanning past his parted lips. “Magic coma?” 

There’s a thunk as Dean leans against one of the crates behind him. “Yup. That’d be my best guess.”

Sam crouches down to get a better look at Bryant’s unconscious body. “So this is the sword, huh?” One of his hands is wrapped around the hilt of the katana in a pretty impressive death grip. “Wow.” 

“I thought it was kind of a let-down, myself.” Dean sniffs. “You said it’s worth a million bucks?”

Sam huffs out a laugh. “Way more than that, man.”

“Seriously?” His brother crouches down next to him. “Do we have to nuke it? If we could break the curse, we could just sell it and move to Aruba on our ill-gotten gains.” 

Sam snorts. “What’s in Aruba?”

“I dunno. Probably less wendigos for starters.” Dean lifts his eyebrows. “And beaches. Chicks in bikinis, Sammy.”

“Dude, we haven’t run into a wendigo in years. And I bet the biembiens in Aruba are killer anyway.” He gives Dean a look. “Zombies too. It’s not like the Caribbean is a time-out spot for creepy-crawlies.”

Dean sighs and pulls back away. “Yeah, yeah. Go ahead and ruin all my hopes and dreams. Not like I needed ‘em anyway.”

Sam scrutinizes the sword the kid’s got clutched in his hands. “Regardless, it’s not like we’ve ever really successfully broken a curse. We usually just ride it out or set it on fire. Or slap the thing in a curse box.”

“Let me enjoy my fantasies, Sam. Least you could do.”

Sam sighs and sits back on his heels. “So. What are you thinking?”

Dean shrugs. “Like you said, burn it.”

Sam frowns. “I don’t know, Dean. What if that doesn’t wake him up. No way am I gonna lock some kid into an eternal nightmare.”

“He could be dreaming about a room full of Rihannas, dude. You don’t know.” Dean runs a hand over his head. “And even if the curse doesn’t wake him up, that’s what he gets for touching magical bullshit in the first place.”

“ _Dean_.” 

“Oh don’t sound so scandalized, Scarlett O’Hara. He’ll be fine.”

Sam pushes to his feet. “No. We don’t know that.”

Dean spreads his arms. “Then what do you wanna do? Edify me, Sam. ‘Cause I have no idea how to wake the kid up without eighty-sixing the sword.”

“I could do it.” Dean freezes, and hits him with a distrustful glare. Sam shuffles his feet at the intense suspicion in his brother’s eyes, but presses on. “I mean, if it’s me… It’s not as bad as some innocent kid, y’know?”

“Jesus Christ, Sam!”

“Dean, I’m serious.”

Dean lets out an angry, strangled noise and whirls on him. “And you think I’m not?” He lashes his boot out to kick at one of the crates. “You know, sometimes I _literally_ think about nailing your goddamn hands and feet to the floor to keep you from doing stupid shit like this. But then I think that would probably just make your idiotic martyr complex even worse!”

“I’m not trying to be some victim here, Dean! This isn’t for attention!” Sam forces himself into his brother’s space and glowers. “I’m not gonna risk some poor kid’s life when it could be me.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dean shoves in closer until they’re basically snarling at each other’s throats. “So why not me?” Sam only falters for a nanosecond, but it’s the opening Dean needs in order to sink his hooks into Sam’s hesitation. “You’re so gung-ho about laying a hunter on the chopping block instead of Tickle-Me-Emo over there, why not me?”

Sam flinches at the suggestion but refuses to back away. “No,” he growls.

“Fuck you.” Dean shoves at his chest. “You’re a fucking hypocrite.” He curls his fingers into a fist, and for a second Sam thinks he’s gonna deck him, but Dean just grabs at the front of Sam’s shirt and jams his back against the crate across the aisle. “You don’t get to make that decision, asshole. Because it’s not just you. I’m in this.  _We’re_ in this. I said ‘both feet in’, remember? And if you can’t handle that—then too fucking bad.” He struggles for a moment to get a hold of himself before crowding back into Sam’s space. “It is _way_ too late in the game for you to be messing around on the Tactics Board. Because we are in the middle of the fourth quarter.” Dean pushes him again to underscore his point and growls, “Got it?”

And Sam is still DEFCON 1 pissed, but he has to fight off a small smile at his brother’s familiarly stupid metaphors. “Is our sex life the football game in this scenario?” Dean visibly bristles at Sam’s comment, but he can’t stop himself from adding the second nasty jibe. “’Cause I’m pretty sure Weis gets to make those calls, not Heaps.”

Dean’s eyes blaze like he wants to set him on fire and Sam thinks his brother is actually going to hit him this time, but instead he just yanks Sam down to his mouth and kisses him like he’s planning on leaving scorch marks. He mauls at his lips and Sam groans, sinking into the searing heat of his brother’s mouth. Dean grazes his teeth against Sam’s lower lip, and if he wants to play that way, _fine_. Sam’s going to beat him at his own game. He bites until he draws blood. Dean hisses at the pain and tries to jerk back, but Sam’s got his lower lip firmly between his teeth and he refuses to let go. His brother growls once he realizes the full extent of the situation, and pushes back in, crushing their mouths together and digging his hands into Sam’s waist. Sam retaliates by wrenching their hips together, and at some point, the fighting just turns back into making out. Dean presses one final scalding kiss to Sam’s lips, and by the time they both pull away, Sam’s surprised that he’s not left a smoldering charcoal briquette.

They both stare at each other, panting heavily, and Sam’s not entirely sure that anything was actually solved by that impromptu tongue battle. And Dean is noticeably crumbling into discomfort, but he just shifts back a few more inches, adjusts himself, and says, “Well, maybe Heaps _should_ have made a few calls. We could have won more than one fucking game.” And that’s all it takes to shatter the awkward moment. Sam breaks into mollified laughter at his brother’s ridiculous non sequitur and Dean’s lips stretch into a relieved smile. “Worst season ever. We’re fucking laughingstocks, Sammy.”

Sam pulls his brother back to him and envelops Dean’s wide shoulders in a hug. “I’m not gonna lose you again,” he mutters into his temple. “I just got you back, man." 

“Yeah?” Dean’s voice comes out muffled, courtesy of Sam’s neck. “Ditto, asshole.” Dean allows him to keep holding on for a few more seconds, then his macho posturing bubbles up and he pushes Sam away. “Alright, Francis. Let’s maybe just try and deal with the situation at hand before we need to resort to more crying over our bowls of Haagen-Dazs, okay?”

Sam snorts and shoves Dean’s face away, then rubs a hand over his own jaw and focuses back on the unconscious teenager at their feet. “So, I’m thinking Occam’s razor.” 

Dean raises an eyebrow. “That better than Gillette?”

“What? No. It’s a principle of thought—” He waves a hand at his brother’s face. “Never mind. I just mean maybe we can pull the sword out of his hand and that’ll be enough.” 

Dean crouches down near the kid’s outstretched arm and pulls his bandana back out. “Alright, gimme a hand here.” He waits for Sam to settle, then adds, “And don’t fucking touch the sword.” Sam would make some sort of cutting remark in response, but they just had a stupid fight about that exact thing, so he rolls his eyes instead. Silently.

Dean wraps the cloth around what hilt he can reach and Sam carefully pries at Bryant’s clawed hand. It takes a few minutes because the kid’s fingers are _clamped_ around the handle and they feel about as cold and rigid as a statue’s. Sam’s three seconds away from seeing if they have a hammer and chisel back in the car, when Dean finally manages to wrench the blade free. He tumbles back onto his ass from the force, and Sam sends an unconscious prayer up to the unfeeling asshole of a God that Dean had the presence of mind to twist the sword away from his body. It clatters onto the concrete beside him without having come into any contact with his skin. Sam breathes a sigh of relief just as the teenager under him suddenly comes back to life with a violent inhale.

“Whoa, Jesus.” Sam tries to both give the kid some space and hold him down until he stops gasping and wildly scrabbling around at nothing. “Hey. Hey, c’mon.  _Bryant_.” He ducks to avoid a flailing limb to the face. “Calm down.”

Bryant finally stops thrashing at the sound of Sam’s voice and blinks myopically up at him. He clutches at the front of his shirt. “Oh god! Am I—?” He struggles around once more until Dean crawls over and hands him his glasses. His hands shake as he slides them back up over his nose and his voice sounds like he hasn’t used it in weeks. “Is this…? Am I back in Michigan?” He swivels his head around to take in the mountains of crates lining them on either side, then starts crying in relief. “Oh god, I’m safe. It’s done. I’m safe.” He closes his eyes and slumps back against the floor.

“Jesus, kid. What the hell happened?” Dean sounds concerned enough, but mostly just pleased that they stopped everything so easily. Sam gives his brother a look to try and center him back on _considerate_ , but Dean only grins in response.

“I can’t believe…” Bryant hasn’t opened his eyes yet, but he seems content to mumble from his horizontal position. “It sent me away— I was different _people!”_  His eyes shoot open and he scrambles back until he bumps into a crate. “Th-there… You’re gonna think I’m crazy. There was a fucking _werewolf!_  I swear to god!”

Sam holds his hands up in what he hopes comes off as a placating gesture. “It’s okay, Bryant. We believe you. What happened?”

“It was… It was the sword, man! I know it sounds nuts, but—” Bryant’s eyes glaze over and he twitches his hand out to reach for the katana that Dean left lying a few feet away.

“What?  _Hey!”_  Dean gives the kid’s shoulder a rough shake. “What the fuck, man?”

Bryant’s eyes clear and he seems to come back to himself. “What?” He glances at his hand and pulls it back to his chest in shock. “Oh god! N-no! Oh god!”

“Jesus, calm down.” Sam shifts his body to block Bryant’s view of the sword and it seems to relax him slightly. “What’s going on?” 

“This is gonna sound crazy,” he blubbers. “The sword—it, like, _transported_ me.” He holds his hands up defensively. “I know it sounds nuts, but it’s true.” Sam and his brother share a glance, but Dean just shrugs. It isn’t the weirdest thing they’ve ever heard. Bryant flicks his eyes between them like he can’t decide who to settle on, and says, “I was different _people_. And I had to, like, _shoot_ a guy!” Dean’s eyes narrow and the kid nearly trips over himself trying to explain. “No, I _had_ to! It wouldn’t let me out until I did. And I thought that if I did enough then it would let me go, but they just kept happening! And they were like _murderers_ , man.” 

The kid is trembling against the wood, and Sam pulls his brother’s attention back to himself before Bryant has a heart attack. “Well, the sword _is_ supposed to ‘cut the deserving’.”

Dean widens his eyes in frustration. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

Sam shrugs. “Maybe it sends you to different situations where you have to—I don’t know—stop the bad guy.”

“Are you kidding me? What is this, Quantum Leap?” Dean growls as the kid starts reaching for the sword again and kicks his leg out as a barricade. “So what? It dicks you around until you knock off a few Charlie Mansons?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Sam glances back at Bryant, but he seems to doing alright curled up in a timid ball of pointy elbows and knobby knees. “But I don’t think it ever lets you go. Muramasa ‘cursed it for all time’ remember? I’m pretty sure the victims are forced to keep going through it until their real body starves to death or something.”

Dean scrubs a hand down his face. “Well, the kid’s awake now. So let’s just burn the thing and move on.” 

Sam nods and moves to go for the sword, but something pulls him back. A strange feeling in his gut that’s been churning every time they handle something way too easily today. “Hey, Dean. Before we head back to the woods and drench the thing in lighter fluid, can you just…light the tip of it or something?”

His brother gives him a weird look. “What?”

“Just—c’mon, man. Please?”

Dean shakes his head, but goes to do what Sam asks. “You’re a fucking weirdo, Sammy. I want that put down on record.” He pulls out his lighter and flicks it on, then holds the flame to the tip of the blade. He levels Sam with a patronizing look until Bryant starts yelling and flailing around again.

“Ow! Oh god, stop it! Stop it, please!” Dean jerks his hand back at the kid’s cries, and Sam rushes over to check on him. Bryant stares up at him with a mournful look. “It _burned_ me. Jesus, man. What the hell?” Sam captures his fingers and holds them up to the light. The tips are bright red and the skin is shiny, not second-degree, but close. He lets them drop and Bryant curls them against his chest again. “What the hell, man?”

Sam shakes his head and walks back over to Dean, pitching his voice low enough that Bryant won’t overhear and freak out even more. “We can’t burn it, man. The kid’s whole body will go up. I guess they’re still connected.”

Dean looks shell-shocked at the possibility of what could have happened had Sam not been so cautious. “Yeah…” He clears his throat and shoves the lighter back in his pocket. “So, what now? We can’t just send Wicker Man over there away. You saw his weird trance shit, he’s gonna come back and touch the damn thing first chance he gets.”

Sam frowns. “You think we could hold him off just for a while? Until we find a proper curse box for the thing. Or maybe make one?” 

“Dude, I have no idea how to do that.” Dean rubs a hand over his mouth. “And if this Mice-a-rooni thing—” 

“ _Masamune_.” 

“Gesundheit. If it even _had_ a curse box back in the day, there’s no way we’re gonna be able to find it now.” He glances back over at the kid. “I mean, I guess we could head out to somebody who might know _something_. Missouri Mosely, maybe?” He shakes his head. “But that’ll take a shitload of time, which means one of us is gonna be stuck on babysitting duty for who knows how long. Not to mention, it’s _still_ not a sure bet.” 

Sam freezes as an idea comes to him, but Dean’s not going to like it. He glances up at his brother, but he’s still muttering to himself, trying to come up with a solution.

Dean sighs as an answer eludes him. “We’re still on the hook with Kevin too. The kid’s gotta come up with a translation any day now, and who knows how much that’s gonna entail?” He gives Sam a sheepish look. “Slamming the gates has gotta be first priority, man.”

“I’m not letting a kid _burn_ to death, Dean.” Sam shudders as he tries to forget how much he knows exactly what it would feel like. That had been a typical afternoon for Sam in the Pit, and he’s not keen on revisiting any of it. Not even secondhand.

Dean looks upsettingly affronted. “ _Dude_ , me neither.  _Jesus_.”

“Okay. So we handle this a different way.” Sam ignores the suspicious way Dean is sizing him up and forges ahead. “One of us touches the sword, so that the kid’s off the hook—”

“Sam, I swear to god—”

“ _And_ …” He fixes his brother with a look, “…fights it off from the inside.”

Dean stares at him. “And how are we supposed to do that?”

“Well, we’re still stuck with the same options as before. We just don’t have to get anyone else killed this way.” Sam raises his eyebrows. It’s a smarter decision and they both know it.

“Fine,” Dean growls. “But it’s gonna be me.”

Sam feels a flush of rage pulse through his body. “What,” he grits out through his teeth, “you don’t trust me?”

Dean glares at him, and it’s amazing how his brother can still make him feel like he’s eight years old with just a look. “You’re damn right, I don’t trust you. Not five minutes ago you were ready to sacrifice yourself for the good of innocent teenagers everywhere. I’m not letting you within ten feet of the fucking thing.”

Sam tightens his hands into fists and snarls, “But it’s fine if you do it instead?”

“Whaddya know? Give the kid a medal, he finally gets it.”

“No, Dean.” Sam sets his feet and tries to look as immoveable as possible, argumentatively _and_ physically. “Absolutely not.”

But Dean just gives him a cruel smile and parrots, “Yes, Sam. Absolutely yes.”

Sam holds back a strangled noise and tries not to wring his brother’s neck out of pure frustration. They’re in a better place than they’ve been in months, maybe _years_ , and Dean is ready to toss everything away out of sheer stubbornness. Dean is holding his ground in the most infuriating way he knows how and Sam’s not sure if he wants to kiss him or kick him in the balls. Man-code be damned. He sighs and forcibly relaxes his shoulders. “Together, then.” 

Dean frowns. “What?”

“Final offer.” Sam smirks. “Or we go back to the Missouri idea and hope that Kevin doesn’t need us anytime soon.”

Dean warily eyeballs him up and down, but Sam’s reached a last-resort position that he refuses to budge from and his brother seems to get it. “Fine.” Dean lets out a sharp breath and backs down. “You wanna shake on it?” 

Sam’s moments away from saying something stupid and cheesy about sealing deals and kissing, but he doesn’t want to scar the poor kid behind them anymore than they already have today. So he huffs out a poor excuse for a laugh and walks back to Bryant. His eyes are glazing over again, so Sam kicks at his tennis shoe before leaning down to speak. “My brother and I are gonna handle this, okay? We’re gonna deal with everything and you’re gonna be safe and free to go, but… Maybe don’t tell anyone about the crazy stuff, alright?”

Bryant flinches and looks up at him with doleful eyes. “You mean, like the werewolf?”

“Or the people-jumping,” Dean calls out from over his shoulder. “Unless you’d prefer to spend the rest of your life bending over for Nurse Ratched.”

Bryant enthusiastically nods and pushes his glasses farther up on his nose. “Okay, whatever you say. Anything you want." 

Sam and Bryant both turn and watch as Dean carefully rolls the sleeve of his jacket up his forearm. He fixes Sam with a look, and Sam feels his heart seize in his chest as he grabs the moment and shoves the image into his permanent memory. He swallows with an audible click and ignores the unwanted, intrusive thoughts that dance around the edges of his brain, taunting him with the idea that something could go wrong. He tosses his brother a smile that he doesn’t feel, and watches unwaveringly as Dean leans down to grasp the handle of the sword.

The instant his fingers close around the hilt, Dean drops like a stone. On autopilot, Sam gets the urge to run to his brother, but he’s stopped by Bryant gasping and tensing next to him. The kid’s eyes are screwed shut and he’s braced against the crate, stiff as a board. Sam watches him for a stressful moment, then gently places his hand on his shoulder. And the instant Sam’s fingers touch Bryant’s body, he lets out a sharp exhale and slumps back into a more human-looking position. 

He glances up at Sam and runs his hands over his own chest. “Is that—? I think it’s over.” He lets out the first recognizably relieved sound since the moment he woke up and smiles. And it isn’t strained or terrified at all. “Yeah, I’m good. Wow, _thanks_.” His eyes catch on Dean’s unconscious form and his expression sobers before he turns back to Sam. “Is your brother gonna be alright?”

Sam chokes back the surge of uncertainty that floods his throat and gives the kid his best witness face. “Yeah, he’ll be okay. Do you think you can make it out of here on your own?” 

Bryant nods and staggers to his feet. “Yeah, man. I’ll be fine. Thanks.”

He makes to head out, but Sam stands and clamps a hand around his arm. “Look, if anyone spots you, don’t tell them you were in the armory, okay? And don’t say anything about my brother and me. If anyone comes in here, it could really mess stuff up.” 

“Yeah, of course.” Bryant turns to leave, then pauses. “Hey, um… Can I ask you something?” Sam nods, and he wrings his hands. “Um…how long was I in here?”

“Uh, a little under a week. Why?” 

The kid lets out a disbelieving laugh. “ _Jesus_. It felt like a couple of months.” He’s still and silent for a moment, then seems to remember Sam is in the room and startles. “Sorry, I’ll just… Thanks again.”

Bryant disappears around the stacks of crates and Sam doesn’t have the time to worry about his last unnerving statement. He crouches down next to Dean’s body and skates a thumb over his brother’s cheekbone. Dean looks for all the world like he’s just sleeping, his eyes are even moving in that telltale REM manner, but the muscles of his forearm are corded and his fist is tightly clenched around the handle of the katana. Sam traces a finger down the exposed skin of Dean’s arm, trailing down to the sword’s hilt, and sends up a silent prayer that the sword will work on both of them together.

He clasps a hand around his brother’s… 

And everything goes dark.

 


	2. Start a New Chapter, Find What I'm After

Amal Nadir tugs at his bowtie, which seems to have suddenly decided to strangle him, and checks the clipboard in his hands for the thirty-second time in the last five minutes. Miss Carson is already twenty-seven minutes late for her call time, but refuses to come out of her dressing room until she feels like it. And Amal’s going to get blamed for it, even though she was the one who kicked him out instead of listening to his ever-escalating pleading. He glances at the schedule one more time and swipes the back of his hand across his forehead. It feels like sweat, but he’s going to blame the soundstage lighting if anyone insists on drawing attention to it. Amal yanks at the noose of pink silk around his neck one more time, straightens his sweater vest, then steels himself to knock on Miss Carson’s door again. He clears his throat and marches down the hallway to her room, trying not to think of it as a march to certain doom.

Yes, she’ll probably call him all sorts of horrible names. Yes, she might throw a humidifier at his head (it wouldn’t be the first time). Yes, she could possibly even have him fired if she’s in enough of a mood. But Amal Nadir is no coward. He’s going to do his job and get everything sorted like it should be and screw the consequences. There isn’t anything in the world that can— 

“Jesus Christ!” Sam buckles at the knees, but manages to catch himself (painfully) against the wall beside him. A wave of dizziness sweeps through his head and he shuts his eyes against the intense crest of nausea. He remains stock-still until it finally starts to ebb away, then groans and slides his hand up the smooth plaster. Sam groggily blinks at the blue swoosh wallpaper in front of his face, and waits for it to make some sort of sense. But it doesn’t, so he braces his hand against the wall and pushes himself upright. 

Okay, he’s inside somewhere. Sam glances up and down the corridor and waits for his brain to catch up to the fact that it looks nothing like the corridor he left five seconds ago. The Spartan cement flooring and walls of wooden boxes have been replaced by tinny pop music, shockingly clean carpeting, and a hallway of never ending doors. He takes a small step forward and nearly trips over a clipboard lying at his feet. Sam frowns and bends down to pick it up, when all of a sudden his brain starts sparking off a ton of confusing and contradictory signals. He can’t exactly put a finger on what it is that’s bothering him, until he realizes that the ground is much closer than it should be. And he’s standing at his full height. Sam swivels his gaze around the rest of the hall and realizes that everything else is also just a little taller than normal. The ceiling’s farther away, the doors are longer than they should be, and the framed pictures on the wall are about ten inches too high. Sam lets out a breath, tries to exhale as calmly as possible, and reaches down for the clipboard.

And those are definitely not his hands.

Sam wheels backward and ignores everything else in favor of trying one of the nearby doors. The first two are locked. But the third one’s open and the room inside is free, so he rushes in and slams the door shut behind him. It appears to be some sort of luxe waiting room, and Sam is reminded of the trailer that fake-Dean had that time Balthazar sent them to Canada. Maybe he’s on another TV set? He gingerly tiptoes up to the giant, lighted mirror that’s taking up most of one wall and nervously raises his eyes to meet the ones of the reflection in front of him.

The man looking back at him is young. Early-twenties probably, with nut-brown skin and a shock of dark hair swept up into some kind of impressive coif. Sam leans in closer and studies the unfamiliar brown eyes in the mirror. He’s wearing a pastel vest and a pink bowtie and he looks like some kind of errand boy. Or intern, maybe. And he’s definitely much shorter than he’s used to, which explains his mini freak-out in the hallway. Sam rubs a hand over the foreign cut of another man’s jaw, and the clean-shaven feel of it mentally sends him back a couple years. 

“Okay. Different person.” The mellow tenor that comes from his mouth surprises him. “Different voice. This is weird as shit.” Well, at least he’s not a teenaged wanna-be witch this time. “Gotta find Dean,” he says authoritatively to the stranger in the mirror. Sam takes a few more astonished seconds to study his new face, then pushes back to search for his brother. And stops cold. How in the fuck is he supposed to find Dean when he could look like anyone? And who knows if the sword even sent them to the same place? The thought of being separated from his brother sends an icy chill down Sam’s rented spine, so he chooses to ignore the possibility. He’ll find Dean and they’ll figure this out. Anything else is unthinkable. 

He backs out of the dressing room—that must be what it is—and shuts the door behind him with a soft snick. Okay, he can do this. Sam straightens his shoulders and tries to look like he’s supposed to be here, wherever here is. He bends to scoop up the clipboard on his way by (this body probably dropped it when Sam got slammed inside) and heads back in the direction he came from. The hallway eventually breaks off into some sort of set. There’s bright lights everywhere, heating the area to way past comfortable, and there’s a large smattering of high-tech cameras all pointed at the middle of the room. A flurry of people are fretting over a giant crystal chandelier diagonally propped up against the floor and PAs run back and forth worriedly muttering into their headsets. “I feel your pain,” Sam mumbles under his breath and sidesteps to avoid being barreled over by a large man carrying some sort of champagne fountain on a dolly.

“Amal!”

Sam raises his eyebrows at the weird extravagance of whatever is going on here and sneaks through to continue the search for his brother. Knowing Dean, he’ll be lurking around the food table, no matter whose body he’s in.

“Amal!”

Sam’s almost across the room before he feels a heavy hand thump down onto his (currently narrow) shoulder.

“ _Nadir_ , what the heck? You ignoring me?” Sam startles and tracks his gaze up to see a burly, dark-haired man glaring daggers at him. It’s strangely odd to have to look _up_ at anyone, and the uncertainty must show in his eyes because the guy makes a face. “What, you got brain damage or something?” The man laughs. “Did she chuck another blender at you, dude?”

Sam lets out a weak laugh as he tries to play along, but the guy just bulldozes over him. “I know she’s a bitc—uh _difficult_.” He colors at his almost-slip. “I know she’s _difficult_ , Amal. But she’s almost forty minutes late at this point and it’s your friggin’ job to get her here.”

Okay. Amal. That must be his name. Sam clears his throat to stall for time and runs through his options. He could duck out on this guy and high-tail it off to find Dean, but he has no idea where his brother could be and who knows how long that would take. Not to mention that neither of them know how long they’re gonna be stuck here and Sam doesn’t want to destroy this poor guy’s life anymore than he absolutely has to. He throws on an apologetic grin and shrugs his borrowed shoulders in a self-deprecating manner. “Sorry, uh—man.” He should probably learn this guy’s name. “You know how it is. Uh—how _she_ is…right?”

And apparently that was the correct thing to say because the guy breaks out into impressed laughter and claps him on the back. “Check it out, he’s standing up and calling out the boss. Very impressive. I better watch my back or they’ll fast-track _you_ to DP.” The man laughs again at his own statement and heads off to fiddle with one of the cameras. “I’m serious though, if Kylie flippin’ Carson doesn’t get her ass out here in the next ten minutes, the director’s gonna start chopping off heads.”

Sam nods in understanding and backs away, turning to face the hallway he first came from. He slips away from the hot lights and reflected chandelier glare and leans back against the comforting swoosh wallpaper in the hall. Okay, turns out he’s an assistant or something. No problem, he can do this. He’ll find this Kylie chick, get her to the soundstage, and then he can resume his search for Dean. Sam flicks his gaze to the endless series of doors and notices that some of them have names tacked onto the front. Which means that all he’s gotta do is find the one that says Kylie Carson, and he’s home-free.

He glances down to the neglected clipboard in his hands and hopes for some sort of clue. Okay, it says ‘Amal Nadir’ at the top, which Sam assumes is his current meatsuit’s name. He tracks his finger down a list of other titles. One says ‘DP’, and underneath that ‘Director of Photography’. Okay, that must be that big guy he ran into in the other room. And ‘Peter Cox’ is the name printed in the box. Alright, Sam’s making headway. Great. The rest of the paper seems to be some kind of schedule for the day, but everything’s written out to the exact minute. _Hair Call: 7:46am. Wardrobe Call: 9:02am. Call Time for Kylie Carson: 9:58am._ That last one is scribbled out in red ink and a few different times are scrawled in the margins. It looks like it was Amal’s way of trying to keep the schedule organized despite this mystery chick’s tardiness. Sam glances at the watch on his left wrist. It’s 10:40 now, so Amal must have been re-ordering the itinerary every ten minutes or so. Sam chuckles. This guy’s OCD could put Howard Hughes to shame. Finally, he finds what he’s looking for. There’s a tiny note jotted down at the bottom of the page in Amal’s handwriting, _Miss Carson — Dressing Room 7._ Perfect. Sam glances up at the door in front of him, Number 2, and strides down the hallway. 

He only makes one wrong turn before he manages to backtrack and find the proper room. There’s a paper star with ‘Kylie Carson’ on the front, so Sam lightly knocks at the wood. “Miss, uh…Carson? It’s Sa— _Amal_.” There’s no answer. “They—uh—need you at the…place.” He can clearly hear movement inside, but there’s still no response. Sam lets out a frustrated sigh. He needs to find his fucking brother, not waste his time catering to some spoiled starlet. “Look, _Kylie_ , could you please get out here? I’ve got things to do.”

The door swings open violently, and Sam is met with five feet of sequins and indignant rage. “ _Excuse_ me? What did you just say to me?” The woman’s eyes flash with anger and she seems to be bristling all the way to the spiky tips of her close-cropped hair. “You do _not_ speak to me that way. _Ever_. The only reason you have a job, _Amal_ , is because I feel gracious enough to hand you one. I say the word and you’re out on your ass, _comprende?”_ She huffs and flips the train of her skirt behind her. “Lucky for you, I’m ready to go out now. But do not piss me off again!” She tosses one more disdainful look over her shoulder before sashaying away, and Sam wonders if getting this guy fired isn’t actually doing him a huge favor.

“So this is how the other half lives,” he mutters to himself. Sam shakes his head. Sometimes he has to wonder if Dean isn’t right about the whole ‘normal life sucks’ thing. But, speaking of his missing brother… Sam puts this last assignment in the ‘mission accomplished’ column and hopes that no one else will need Amal for a while. Then he tugs at the ridiculous bow tie around his neck until it isn’t choking him and heads off to try and find Craft Services. 

He’s only a few steps down the corridor before a stretch of garish purple fabric comes sweeping into view. The ludicrous violet suit is being worn by a sleazy-looking, blond man who nearly trips over Sam in his haste to get wherever he’s going. Sam backs up to a safe distance and the man holds up a hand in apology and their eyes catch and—

_“Dean?”_

The man stops in his tracks. _“Sammy?”_

And it _is_ Dean. Sam has no idea how he knows, but it is. His brother is currently inhabiting the body of a thin, thirty-something with slicked-back hair and an apparent preference for horrendously tacky clothing. And Sam feels like he should be hugging him or something, but all he can do is laugh. “Dude, _nice_ threads.”

Dean’s feathers ruffle at Sam’s sarcasm and he snarks, “Oh, like you’re one to talk. You look like Aladdin at his first polo match.” There’s a moment where Sam thinks maybe he should be insulted on Amal’s behalf, but then Dean breaks into a smile and pulls him into a tight hug. “Look at this, man. You’re shorter than me, it’s friggin’ awesome.”

Sam wants to be offended, but it’s really good to see his brother safe and sound. Even if he smells like he’s just dunked himself in the nearest vat of cheap cologne. He claps Dean on the back and unnecessarily says, “Well, I guess the sword worked.”

Dean makes an amused noise. “Yeah. Understatement of the year.” He takes a few seconds to look over Sam’s new appearance, then runs his bottom lip through his teeth. And it’s really fucking weird to see his brother’s familiar mannerisms on a stranger’s face. “How long you been here?”

“Uh…” Sam glances at his watch. “Half-hour or so. You?”

“Yeah, same.” Dean lifts one shoulder. “Maybe a little more.”

Sam rubs a hand over his chin and stares up at his brother in bewilderment. “This is really weird.”

Dean laughs. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

They’re still staring at each other when a pleasant, modest-looking woman rounds the corner. “Oh no! Did something happen?” They both turn to give her matching inquisitive stares and she blushes. “I’m sorry, I just mean— You two are together. I mean, not together, but…talking. I just thought something must have happened.” She clears her throat and gives them a wide berth. “Sorry, I’ll just… Never mind.” She scuttles around the bend and Sam realizes that he’s still got his fingers twisted in his brother’s lapels, and Dean’s got one hand on his shoulder.

Dean must realize the same thing, because he lets go and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Uh, guess these dudes don’t like each other.”

“Yeah, must be.” Sam glances around the hallway. “Here, one of these was unlocked last time, so maybe…” He fiddles with the handle on one of the unmarked doors and it clicks open. “Wouldn’t want to cause a scene or something. I guess.” His brother twitches his lips and follows him inside, making sure to shut the door behind them, and then they’re finally alone.

Dean saunters across the room and leans back against the vanity counter, taking a not-so-subtle second to glance at himself in the mirror, then turns to face Sam. “So. We’re inside the curse, just like you wanted. What now?”

Sam sighs and takes a seat on the couch opposite the mirror. “I don’t know, man. Hoodoo, maybe?”

“So we just find some bokur to throw some mojo at us?” Dean raises an eyebrow. “That sounds safe.”

Sam massages his finger over his eyelids. “I was thinking blood root, actually. Or some other type of purification or warding herbs.”

Dean frowns. “Wait. For this-us? Or us-us? ‘Cause wouldn’t that just kick us into somebody else?” Sam groans unpleasantly, that’s actually a fair point. “And even if we headed back to Kalamazoo and dusted our real bodies, would the curse even be considered evil enough for warding to work?”

“Shit.” He didn’t think about that.

“Because taking down bad guys seems pretty noble to me. I’m not sure protection magic’s gonna work.”

Sam thunks his head back onto the cushion behind him. “Okay, purification magic then.”

Dean nods amicably and spreads his hands. “Okay. Like what?”

Sam winces and prepares for his brother’s imminent outrage. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t—? What the hell, Sam? I thought you had a plan!” Dean grabs a tin of lip gloss from the counter and chucks it at his head. “When you said you wanted to fight from the inside, I figured that meant you knew how!” He makes a miserable noise and yanks at his suit. “We should’ve gone to Missouri. I’m gonna die looking like Prince.”

“We’re not gonna die, Purple Rain. We can always still go see Missouri.”

Dean gives him a look. “I’m pretty sure we’re in Los Angeles, dude.” He tugs his wallet out of his back pocket. “How close do you think we’d get to Lawrence before this thing kicked us again?”

“It might not,” Sam mumbles.

But Dean doesn’t hear him, as he’s finally fished his wallet out and is studying his license. “Leonard Weaver. Thirty-seven. Lives in Studio City.” Dean looks up mournfully. “He’s giving a thumbs-up in his driver’s license photo, Sammy. A _thumbs-up._ I’m gonna be stuck as this douchebag until my real body starves to death.”

“Dean, it’s fine.” Sam moves over to his brother and slides his palms over Dean’s bent knees. “We can call Missouri, okay? Or try Cas.”

His brother shifts and glances away. “Well, Cas hasn’t been answering his 700 Club hotline since that bullshit disappearing act he pulled with Alfie.”

“He might.” 

“He _won’t_.” Sam pauses at the vehemence in Dean’s tone, and watches as his brother slowly slides his masks back into place. “Let’s just consider Cas ‘in the wind’ on this one, okay?” 

Sam nods, trying to pacify the bitterness in Dean’s tone. “Okay.” He runs his hands up Dean’s thighs. They’re straight instead of bowed, and it’s such a stupid thing for Sam to miss, but he does. “We’ll figure something out. We always do.”

Dean grunts in response and claps his hands over the ones Sam’s got on his legs. Dean’s are bigger, and Sam thinks that hasn’t been true since he was fifteen. His brother’s lips quirk and he tightens his strangely narrow fingers. “You know what, man?” Sam hums, and waits for him to continue. “You look…really gay.”

“What?” Sam yanks his hands away. “ _Dean_.”

His brother laughs and scratches at the corner of his eye. “I’m sorry, Sam. But you do.”

“I’m not gay.” 

Dean gives him a look. “You’re wearing a pink bowtie.”

“Whatever.” Sam waves a hand up and down his borrowed body. “This guy maybe, but—” He glares at his brother. “Shut up. I’m not gay, Dean.” 

Dean just quirks an eyebrow. “Well…you’re a _little_ gay. I mean, you take it up the ass pretty regularly—ow!”

Sam elbows his brother in the stomach and is rewarded with a pained yelp. “Yeah?” He leans in closer. “What does that make you then?” 

Dean smiles, still clasping a hand to his bruised abdomen, and tugs Sam down. “Fine. You wanna make out, straight guy?”

“We can’t, Dean.”

His brother snorts. “Wait, did I actually hurt your _feelings?_ I was kidding, dude.” He noses at Sam’s jaw. “You’re very straight. The straightest guy I’ve ever seen.”

“Dean, stop. That’s not what I’m talking about.” 

“C’mon, Sam. It’s still my birthday weekend. And you owe me from before.” 

Sam flips over the driver’s license Dean left on the counter and tries to ignore his brother’s pawing. “This says your birthday is October 7th.” But Dean won’t take a hint and Sam forcibly shoves him away, gesturing between them. “Seriously, Dean. We can’t. These aren’t our bodies.”

Dean scrunches up his mouth. “Yeah, I know.” He brings a hand up to mess with Sam’s hair. “But it still feels like _you_ , man. It’s weird.”

“Yeah. I know,” Sam repeats. He lets his brother run his fingers through his short hair for a few more seconds, then pulls away. “But seriously, _no_.”

“Yeah, yeah. I heard you the first time.”

Sam huffs out a laugh. “Plus, I’m pretty sure your cologne would suffocate me." 

Dean spreads his hands out. “I know, right?” He scrubs at his skinny neck. “I went at it with like twenty paper towels, first thing I did. Swear to god.” He makes a face. “It’s freaking _awful_. This guy must go through the stuff by the gallon.”

Sam’s about to make some sort of retort along the lines of Dean smelling better than he usually does, when one of the PAs pokes her head into the room. “Leo?”

They’re both still for a few seconds until Dean realizes that the nickname must be his. “Uh, I’m…Yes. That’s me.” He scoots off the counter and gives the girl his best harmless grin. It looks utterly creepy and predatory in his current body.

She shifts a few inches back. “Um, Miss Carson is asking for you. They sent me to get you.”

Dean claps his hands. “Sure, right. Miss Carson. Absolutely.” He glances back at Sam. “I will be there…so soon. Like, right away.”

The girl fixes him with a weirded-out look. “…Okay. I’ll let them know.”

“Thanks, darlin’.” Dean winks at her, and the look of tolerant disgust on her face tells Sam that Leo Weaver usually did the same.

Sam snorts and herds his brother out the door. “Look at you, fitting right in. You’re practically method.”

Dean straightens his hideous lapels and sulks as they head down the hallway. “She looked at me like I was a creep, Sam. I do not like this. I want my real face back.” 

“Yeah, me too.” Dean grins, and Sam rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

They walk in comfortable silence until Dean asks, “So, who is this ‘Miss Carson’ anyway?”

“Some movie star or something.” Sam fights back a grimace at the memory of their first meeting. “She’s just _delightful_.”

Dean laughs. “That bad, huh?”

“Yeah, I met her earlier. Kylie, I think. Makes Veruca Salt look like Mother Theresa.” 

Dean stops in his tracks. “Wait.” He grabs Sam by the arm. “Kylie Carson?”

“Um…yeah?”

“ _Dude_.” Dean fucking beams. “Do you know who that is?” Sam shrugs in ignorance, and Dean lets out a disbelieving squawk. “She’s famous, man. She was a kid star on Disney Channel way back in the day, and then she moved on to become a singer. And we get to meet her?” Dean slaps him on the back and picks up his pace. “This is so awesome. And she asked for me personally.” Dean waggles his eyebrows. “You think she’ll wanna go backstage?”

“Dean. Not your body.”

His brother ignores him and darts around the corner. “I mean, her music’s terrible. But _damn_ is she hot.”

Sam sighs and trails after his embarrassing excuse for a brother. “Y’know, it’s kind of terrifying how much you watch Disney Channel for a grown-ass man.”

“Jealousy’s not a good color on you, bro.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Sam calls back, and follows Dean out onto the soundstage.

The giant chandelier is still propped up against the floor, but now Kylie Carson is straddling it. A cheesy pop song is blasting out from speakers nestled around the base of the set and she’s lip-syncing as she undulates to the rhythm. And Sam doesn’t ever like to admit when his brother’s right…but she is pretty damn hot. 

The giant man that Sam ran into before _(DP: Director of Photography: Peter Cox)_ spots him and jauntily makes his way over. “Nice job, Amal. Thought Sylvia was gonna cut my balls off.” He laughs heartily and slaps Sam on the shoulder, then pauses uncertainly once he catches sight of Dean standing at his side. “Uh…hey, Leo.”

Dean barely drags his gaze away from the writhing woman in the center of the room to give him a quick, “What’s up, man?” then returns to drooling over the pop star.

Sam clears his throat to draw the DP’s attention away from any suspicious actions on his brother’s part and says, “Hey, Peter. Everything going well?”

“Uh…it’s Pete.” He looks at Sam like he’s sprouted a few new appendages. “You feeling okay, man?”

“Sure, sorry. _Pete_. It’s just that Miss Carson wanted to speak to De— _Leo_ and that is why we’re, uh…here.” 

“Right.” Pete scratches at his wrist and gestures over to the bank of monitors on the other side of the room. “She’s still in the middle of stuff right now, but you—” He pauses and glances at Dean again. “Uh, you _guys_ can watch from over here until she needs you.”

“Great. Thanks so much.” Sam forces a grin onto his face and practically drags his brother away from the nubile superstar and over to where they’re supposed to be standing. 

And Dean apparently isn’t as interested in the singer if he has to watch her from behind a screen, so he finally turns his attention back to Sam. “This is kinda neat though, huh? I mean, if we have to be stuck here.”

“We’re supposed to be running into a murderer or something,” Sam whispers out the side of his mouth. “At least, that’s what Bryant said.” 

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well maybe the kid was cracked.”

Sam makes a face as he ponders the possibility, then changes the subject. “Do you even know what your job is here?”

Dean shrugs. “Nah, not really.” 

“What, you didn’t run into anybody? I thought you got here before me?”

“Well, yeah. But I was looking for you, man.” Dean throws him an unabashed grin. “I did find Craft Services, though.” And Sam wants to roll his eyes, but the splash of normality actually settles his nerves.

“I’m getting some kind of weird flare off the cameras.” The woman tweaking the dials to his left frowns as she turns to the man beside her.

He pulls off his headphones and taps at the screen a couple times. “Eh, don’t worry about it. We can fix it in post.”

Dean stretches over Sam’s shoulder, idly interested in the disturbance behind them, then freezes once he gets sight of the screen. “Uh, Sam.” He slowly raises his index finger. “I think I found our bad guy.”

Sam follows his gaze to where his brother is pointing, then freezes as well. Kylie is clearly depicted dancing in the middle of the screen, and every time she glances at the camera, her eyes flare white. He jerks back and whispers, “A shapeshifter? Really?” 

Dean tilts his head. “Well, we gotta take care of it. Guess that’s why the sword—” He breaks off as a few people pass too close. They walk by and he quietly finishes, “—why the sword dropped us here.”

Sam bites at his lower lip. “I don’t know, man. Should we really be playing into this thing? We just go with the flow, we’re eventually gonna end up dying.” He flaps his hand. “Y’know, the real us.”

“Sam.” Dean rounds on him and puts on his big brother face. The one that refuses to accept any disobedience. Which is dumb, because it never even worked back when Sam was a kid. “Saving people, hunting things. Family business.” 

Sam scoffs. “You just like that they used that as the tagline for one of the books.” 

“Oh my god! I know, right?” The cheery exclamation comes from somewhere behind Sam’s elbow, and he turns to come face-to-face with a peppy girl holding a tray of makeup brushes. “You guys read the Supernatural books too?” Sam groans as Dean lets out a belly laugh. “How hot are the brothers though? Dean, right? So dreamy.” And the look she plants on Sam is a clear expectation for him to start dishing. Like they do this a lot. 

Sam sighs. Apparently Amal _is_ gay. “Yeah,” he replies flatly. “Dreamy.” He makes sure to kick at his brother’s ankle before he decides to add any other embarrassing remarks. Thankfully, he’s saved by Kylie finishing her take and requesting Leo immediately. Dean pulls a reluctant face at being called away from torturing his brother, then he seems to realize who’s asking for him and breaks out into a grin. He heads off with a wink and a silent salute, and Sam almost wants to remind him that the woman is a shifter, but he figures it’ll be funnier once Dean remembers himself.

As soon as his brother clears the area, chirpy makeup girl grabs at Sam’s arm and leans in conspiratorially. “Amal, what’s going on? Why are you hanging out with Leo Weaver?” She makes a face like his name tastes sour on her tongue. “I mean, after what he said about you and everything. He’s _such_ a creepo.”

“Uh…” Sam glances back at Dean, who seems to be in a much more dour mood now that Kylie is screaming at him. “He, um, apologized.”

Makeup girl’s eyes widen in disbelief. “What? Seriously?” 

“Um, yeah. He’s a…changed man.” 

She huffs out a laugh. “Wow. That’s cray. Like, seriously unbelievable.” Sam gives her a tight, polite smile and she leans back in to gossip some more. “You know what he did to Kari, right?” Sam isn’t sure he wants to know, but she blazes right on through. “He told her that she couldn’t be one of the back-up dancers unless she slept with him. Total lie, by the way. He’s _so_ scummy.”

She stares at him expectantly until Sam realizes she’s waiting for him to speak. “Wow, that’s uh—” How did gay guys talk? “…juicy.”

She lifts her painted eyebrows. “Totes.” 

Dean comes slinking back toward them after being chastised, tail between his legs, and makeup girl comes up with an excuse for running off, leaving Sam with one final scandalous look.

“I think you’re a douchebag.”

Dean looks insulted. “What? What’d I do?”

“No, I mean—” He waves his hand at Leo’s body. “Him.”

“Oh. Yeah.” His brother rolls his eyes. “I’m starting to get that.”

Sam crosses his arms and tries not to smirk. “So, how was your girlfriend?”

Dean groans and rolls his head back dramatically. “She’s an evil monster, Sam.” He pauses, then fights off a smile. “Plus, she’s a shifter.” 

“Ba-Dum Tssh." 

Dean scratches at his upper lip. “C’mon, that was funny.”

“Seriously, Dean. We need to figure out a way to undo all of this.” Sam fixes him with his most serious glare. “We’re kind of dealing with something important here.” 

“Yeah, we are.” Dean slips into a defensive position, and Sam’s pretty sure he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. “There’s a shifter here, and it’s our _job_ as hunters to make sure that no one else gets hurt. We have to take the bitch down, curse or no curse.” Sam remains silent because he knows it’s a losing argument, and Dean’s expression lightens a bit. “We’ve got plenty of time, okay? We can figure this out on the next go.” 

Sam throws his hands up. “Dean, that’s my exact point. There’s always gonna _be_ a next go. This thing is gonna keep dropping us right in the middle of shit.” He gives his brother a look. “Monster hunts, apparently. And if we spend all of our time chasing them down, this thing is gonna kill us.” 

Dean frowns. “There’s no way I’m gonna sit by and let people get ganked, dude. Ever.” He runs a hand through his hair, then winces as he realizes it’s slicked back. “We can figure it out _while_ we’re dealing with whatever we’ve gotta deal with.” He wipes his sticky palm on Sam’s sweater. “C’mon. You telling me that big, bad Sam Winchester can’t multitask?”

Sam shoos his hand away. “Stop it, it’s not cute.” Dean gives him a look like he doesn’t believe him. “Fine,” Sam sighs. “Compromise. My favorite.” 

“That’s the spirit, Sammy.” Dean rubs his hands together. “Now. Where the fuck are we gonna get some silver?” He makes a face. “All of our shit’s back in Michigan.”

“Wait,” Sam says, and Dean stills compliantly. “I can’t believe this.” He lets out an incredulous laugh. “I actually have an idea.” Sam walks away from his confused brother and searches out the nearest PA, then throws on his best terrified look. The kid jumps as he pops up in front of him and fists his hand in the guy’s shirt. “It’s Miss Carson,” Sam cries. He throws in some hyperventilating to go along with his terror. “She needs something silver. _Now_.”

The PA looks stunned. “Um, I don’t know where—”

“Right now!” Sam adds some tears in his eyes. “She wants silver knives. And she says she’s gonna come through and fire everyone she sees if she doesn’t get them within the next five minutes!” The kid’s eyes widen in horror and he nods frantically before backing up and spinning into a sprint. “She needs two of them!” Sam calls out to the PA’s retreating back.

Dean starts a slow clap from behind him, then walks up and rests an elbow on Sam’s shoulder. And Sam’s just a tiny bit annoyed that he’s short enough for Dean to be comfortable doing so. “That’s pretty impressive, dude. You shoulda been in more plays in High School.”

“Well, you were the only one who ever came,” Sam mutters under his breath.

“What?” 

“Nothing.” Sam spins around to face his brother and _accidentally_ knocks his elbow off while doing so. “So, what’s the plan?”

“Well, turns out I’m the bitch’s manager.” Dean clears his throat. “I’m sorry, let me get this right. Apparently I’m the ‘worst manager of all time’.” He adds the appropriate air quotes. “So, she ran off back to her dressing room, and I’m supposed to show up for some sort of meeting where she fires me or something.” He grins. “I figure that’s the best cover we’re gonna get.” 

Sam shoots him an impressed look. “Yeah. Not bad.”

“So, all we gotta do is wait for the knives, and then we can go ahead and Drop Dead Diva.” His grin falters at Sam’s look. “What?”

“You watch—?” Sam shakes his head. “Never mind.”

Dean remains unmoving in his spot at the monitor bank as Sam heads off after the PA. “What?”

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

Dean knocks on the door of Dressing Room 7. He adjusts the front of his suit jacket to hide the glint of silver at his waistline and Sam tightens his fingers around the knife in his hand. Amal isn’t wearing anything that would cover a weapon at his belt, so Sam has the dubious honor of trying to hide the thing behind his clipboard and hope monster chick won’t notice. 

Dean raps his knuckles against the wood one more time and puts on his best innocent voice. And even that sounds smarmy in his new body. “It’s Leo. You wanted to see me?” There’s a few moments of silence and Dean throws him a look. Sam just shrugs and his brother tries again. “Hello?” 

The door is fiercely wrenched open and the woman on the other side scoffs in frustration. “Dammit, it’s about time.” She sneers at Dean, then tracks her eyes down to distastefully glance at Sam. “What do you want? I’m good on coffee.”

Dean clears his throat. “Uh, y’see. I needed him here because…”

He clears his throat again to stall, and Sam interrupts. “He asked me here because he said you were firing him.”

Kylie crosses her arms and leans back against the doorframe. She’s wearing a robe now, casually thrown on over the sequins of her earlier costume. “More than he deserves anyway.” She glares at Dean again. “Katy got thirty grand for her last video, and her day rate is only half that. So what the fuck is your excuse, Leo?”

Sam butts in again. “Right. So, Leo wanted me here as a witness for the breaking of the contract.” He digs his elbow into his brother’s side. “Right, Leo?” 

Dean spreads his hands and stretches his lips into a tight smile. “Yup, just to keep everything fair. So—” he glances into the room behind her. “Shall we head in?”

Kylie gives him a weird look, then gives Sam another beleaguered glance, and finally sighs and moves to let them inside. 

Dean makes sure to shut and lock the door behind them and she raises a perfect eyebrow. “I just don’t want anyone coming in during this,” Dean shamefully admits. He even ducks his head. Sam thinks he’s going a little overboard himself, but the girl seems to buy it. “Be a blow to my pride, you see.” 

The shifter has to fight an obnoxious smile at that, but she covers and nods solemnly. “I understand. It must have been an exciting opportunity to work with me.” She turns to glance at herself in the mirror and slides a hand along the edge of the vanity table. “To fail now, due to only your own incompetence must be painful and disappointing.”

Dean hides a disbelieving laugh behind a cough, and slides the knife out of his belt as he slinks up behind her turned back. “Absolutely. Very disappointing.” Sam shifts to cover his other side as Dean rounds her left. “But, hey. Nothing personal.” 

Dean slowly raises his hand to strike, and she must catch a glint of the metal in the mirror, because suddenly she’s whirling around and clamping a hand over Dean’s before Sam can react. She sneers and tightens her grip around Dean’s thin wrist until he winces. Shifters are frustratingly and unnaturally strong when they have to deal with them on a normal basis, and Sam can only guess how much his brother must be struggling now that he’s got sixty less pounds of muscle to back him up. She wrenches his wrist until he drops the knife, then sends him careening into the nearest wall. Dean groans at the impact, and Sam braces his own knife in front of him and tries to flank her.

She grins like a crocodile, all gently smiling jaws, as she takes in the scene at her feet. “So what is this? Leo wants to kill me over a pink slip, and you’re in on it because you’re pissy that I hurt your widdle _feelings?”_ She narrows her eyes. “Or do you have the hots for him?” Sam wants to laugh at how paradoxically right and wrong she can be at the same time, but he just tightens his grip on the handle. “He’s completely disgusted by you, you know? When he called you a fag the other day, that wasn’t the first time.” She twists her face into an insincere moue of pity. “That’s really pathetic, Amal. You must know how much he hates you.” 

Sam briefly flicks his gaze over to Dean, to make sure he’s not out cold, then turns back to the shifter with a smirk. “What can I say, I’m a glutton for punishment.” 

Kylie laughs coldly. “Apparently so. You know, you boys should have really picked a different victim to go postal on.” She shrugs one shoulder. “Too bad you won’t live long enough to realize who you were messing with.”

“I think we know,” Dean groans from his crouch against the wall.

“Oh, baby,” Kylie purrs, “No. You really don’t.” She reaches down to grab Dean’s discarded knife, then cries out as she drops it again with a clatter. She stumbles back, cradling her burned palm to her chest. “Silver?” Kylie stares wide-eyed between the two of them, then bursts out laughing. “You two are _hunters? Really?”_

Sam flings his knife at her chest—hoping to run her through her while she’s distracted and trying to stay far enough away that she can’t overpower him physically—but she twists her shoulders at the last second, letting the weapon clatter into the jars of makeup below the mirror. Kylie glares at him, then claws her hands into his sweater and sends Sam crashing into the table across the room.

She stalks over to his splayed form and Sam cringes in pain as she brings a heel down on his wrist. “You _cried_ on Thursday when I told you that your coffee skills were worthless. Your favorite movie is 27 Dresses. You told Clara that you thought boxing was too violent of a sport to be allowed on television. And you expect me to believe you hunt _monsters_ for a living?” Sam can see Dean’s clumsy figure out of the corner of his eye as his brother reaches for one of the dropped knives. She must have smashed his head harder than Sam thought if Dean is still that woozy. 

He sneers up at Kylie, trying to hold her attention. “Method acting. You’d be surprised.” She lets out a huff of laughter and Sam struggles to keep her focus on him. “So, what happened to the real Kylie Carson? You have trouble starting your own singing career when your skin sloughs off every other week?” She snarls down at him, so Sam goes for the pressure point. “Bet everyone else thought that was _disgusting_.” 

“What did that little bitch know about adoration?!” Kylie twists her heel down hard, and the bones in Sam’s wrist grind together. “Why should she be the one loved and wanted by millions when she’s never faced a day of adversity in her life? Do you have any idea what it’s like being spat at? Being called a ‘monster’?” She jerks her arm out behind her to wrap around Dean’s throat, and the knife clatters to the floor as Dean scrabbles at her fingers around his neck. Because apparently, it’s fucking impossible to get the drop on this bitch. “I’m better than she ever was!” She growls and tightens her fingers around his brother’s windpipe. “And I deserve it more!” 

Sam frantically gropes around with his free hand until he manages to grab onto a heavy vase that he must have knocked off the table when he landed. He swings it at her face with every bit of force Amal has, and she stumbles at the impact, dropping Dean to the carpet.

Dean takes the opportunity to tackle her, ripping off the skin on the side of her face that Sam’s blow loosened. She screams as Dean pushes her flush against the mirror, and Sam lunges for the knife his brother dropped. Dean leans down next to Kylie’s good ear. “Not so pretty now, sweetheart. Are you?” She screeches with rage at her own reflection and tries to reel back at Dean, but he’s got her arm wrenched up behind her back. “I mean, I’ve seen some monsters in my day, but you?” He smiles coolly as he shoves her against the smooth surface. “You definitely take the cake.” 

Sam swings his arms up in a high arc and plunges the silver knife deep, right between her shoulder blades. And Kylie lets out one choked gasp before her eyes roll back into her head and she collapses in Dean’s grip, leaving a streak of gore (or goo or whatever the fuck shifters were made out of) spread out across the surface of the mirror. 

Dean lets out a cry of relief as he leans back against the counter, trying to avoid the disgusting smear of goop next to him. He thumps his head back against the glass and closes his eyes. “That chick was embarrassingly hard to kill.” 

Sam rubs at his own sore wrist before glancing down at the crumpled corpse on the floor. “I can’t believe I’m gonna say this, but I am ridiculously thankful for Dad’s stupid PT drills.”

“They weren’t stupid, Sammy. They were important.”

Sam laughs. “Dude, I’m trying to agree with you here. Lay off.” 

“You lay off,” Dean mumbles, then pushes himself upright. “So…we did it?” He kicks at the body with the pointed toe of his shiny loafer. “Do we win or whatever?” 

Sam pauses for a moment, trying to gauge if he feels any different. “How long do you think before it kicks us?” His brother throws him a _don’t ask me_ face and Sam awkwardly stands around for a bit, waiting for something to happen. “Do you think there’s more than one shifter?”

Dean groans and slumps back against the mirror. “God I hope not.”

“Then what’s the hold up?” Sam circles the woman’s cadaver, then wraps his hands in his vest and wipes down the handles of both knives. No sense in either of these guys going to prison for a murder they didn’t commit. He glances up at his brother. “Are you bleeding anywhere?”

“Nah.” Dean gingerly presses his fingers to the back of his head and brings them around to check. “Don’t think so.”

Sam nods. “Good. I guess we’re all clear then.” Dean reaches out a hand to pull Sam to his feet and Sam clasps the offered palm and lets him. He runs his gaze over his brother’s form. His suit’s a little rumpled and his throat’s a little red, but he doesn’t look suspiciously worse for the wear. The slicked back helmet of gel on his head has even stopped a single hair from falling out of place. Sam glances up at his brother and shrugs. “Guess we should duck around the corner before anyone comes snooping, right?”

“Yup.” Dean grins warmly down at him and ruffles a hand through his hair. “Let’s cheese it before the 5-0 show up.”

Sam snorts and smacks the back of his hand into his brother’s stomach. He throws Dean a sarcastic look then pushes in front of him to unlock the door, and does his best to ignore the warm flush that rose through him at the feel of Dean’s fingers against his scalp. Or the fact that he was looking _down_ at Sam while he did so. He glances back to throw Dean some comment about being slow, but his brother has a hand to his head and a pained expression on his face. The taunt drops from his lips and disappears. “Dude, how hard did she hit you?” 

Sam reaches up to check his brother’s skull, but Dean smacks him away. “No, I think it’s the—” He sways on his feet until Sam steadies him. “I think it’s the sword. We have to get out of here, now.”

“Okay, man. Sure.” Sam pulls open the door and guides them both out of the room, shutting it again to hide the violent scene inside. He tugs his brother down the hall, one hand constant on Dean’s upper arm until they get far enough down the hallway to avoid reasonable doubt. Sam leans his brother against the wall, then almost lurches over once the dizziness hits him as well. “Shit. That is not fun.”

Dean chuckles under his breath. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Sam presses his hands against the wall to hold himself up. Oh. And it’s the swoosh wallpaper again. Good. It’s weirdly soothing. He groans and maneuvers himself until he can blearily stare up at his brother. “We’re gonna figure this out on the next go, right Dean?” 

Dean smiles, but doesn’t open his eyes. “Yeah, Sammy. 'Course we will.”

Sam tries to smile back, not that Dean would see it, but he sways backwards onto the carpet and into the blackness—

Amal snaps his eyes open and jolts up from his position on the floor. He’s…lying down? He takes a moment to get his bearings before he realizes his clipboard is gone. Oh god! He scrabbles at the carpet around him for it, but it’s nowhere to be seen. And he’s still in the studio hallway, which means he must have fainted, which means someone must have stolen it, which means Miss Carson is probably extra late now and Pete is going to murder him. Amal presses a hand to his chest to curb the anxiety rising up through his body and squeezing his lungs, and winces at the pain in his back. He must have fallen much harder than he’d realized. His mind is running through every single excuse he can think of in order to prevent him from getting fired, when he hears a terrified scream ring out from the other end of the hall. Amal fumbles to his feet and sprints down the corridor, ignoring the twinges of pain in his back, and finds Clara, holding her makeup tray to her chest and crying. 

She spins to face him, then drops her tray in favor of clutching at the front of his sweater. “Oh god, Amal! Don’t look!” She presses further against him and sobs into his chest. “It’s Miss Carson! Someone— Someone _killed_ her!”

The studio security has arrived now, and is pushing everyone else out of the way to cordon off the dressing room. Amal hears a mumbled, “Jesus Christ,” from behind him, and glances back to see Leo Weaver, the _asshole_ , stumbling back and heading off in another direction. He mutters something about, “I am way too sober to deal with this shit,” and beelines to a few of the back-up dancers huddled at the edges of the commotion. “Hey, babe. Babe. Either of you girls seen my wallet? The fuck did they put in that coffee this morning?”

Amal rolls his eyes and turns back to Clara, crying into his expensive cashmere. It’s supposed to be dry clean only, but he can’t be too upset with her, given the circumstances. “Are you okay?”

She blinks wetly up at him. “It’s just so violent, you know?” Amal numbly nods and she gets a weird look on her face. “Wait, why do you smell like bad cologne?”

“What?”

They’re both interrupted by the security guards pushing everyone out of the hallway and back into the studio. Amal keeps an arm over Clara’s shoulders and takes over the task of keeping her stable, as he doesn’t seem to be as shaken as the rest of the crowd. Because as much as Amal wants to be horrified about the abrupt and violent murder of his boss...

He can’t help but feel the tiniest tingle of relief. 

 


	3. Moonrise, Thoughtful Eyes

“Fucking Christ on a cracker,” Doyle Ramsey mutters under his breath. He shifts his grip on the machete in his right hand and ducks under another sweep of pine needles. The one time he doesn’t listen to that jackass Rudy’s advice and it turns out to be the one time he actually should have. He presses up against the trunk of the largest tree he can find and wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans one at a time, switching his blade from hand to hand. The smoke he’d sent up earlier seems to be doing a good enough job of keeping him concealed from any filthy vamps sniffing around, but it’s also clogging his throat with its bitter smell. Doyle resists the urge to sneeze.

There’s a shuffling of dried needles from somewhere up to his right, and he sneaks out from his hiding place among the thatched branches, careful and quiet as a mouse. It’s slow-going trying to avoid any stray twigs or other possible noise hazards and even Doyle’s carefully measured steps probably aren’t doing much to hide the sound from any super-sensitive fang ears, but they might think he’s just a critter if they can’t smell the human. There’s another muffled crunch in the middle distance (it sounds like only one of them) and he sprints toward the sound before the bloodsucker can slip away again. And boy, Doyle sure hopes it’s the fella, because the skirt seems twice as wily and ten times as dangerous—

Dean slams into awareness one second before tripping over his own ankles (because apparently he’s running, what?) and solidly faceplanting into the cover of dried pine needles spread out beneath him. “Ow,” he manages to mumble around a mouthful of foliage, then lays there, motionless in the dirt until his nose stops throbbing so painfully. “Son of a bitch.” He rolls over onto his side, spitting out sticks and plant debris, and tries to push away the strong feeling of déjà vu. Why does he keep ending up with a face full of unyielding dirt? He hadn’t even deserved it this time. Dean gingerly presses against his nose to test if it’s broken, then reaches for his bandana with his other hand in order to brush away the needles he can still feel clinging to his face. But he pauses once he realizes that his hand is already full…of machete. Right. Invasion of the Body Snatchers. How could he forget? Dean places the weapon down at his side and brushes off the rest of the leaf bits and sticks coating his front. 

He’s wearing a heavy-duty flannel shirt, an army jacket, and jeans. What Dean can see of his forearms is covered in darker hair than he’s used to, and his middle is definitely a tad thicker than usual. Which is really unpleasant. Dean feels another strong pang of longing for his actual body. Which he likes. Even with his stupid legs. He reaches up to brush at his face, hands will have to make do if he doesn’t have his bandana, and stops again at the unfamiliar sensation of a full beard. “Oh god, this is so fucking weird,” he grumbles. Well, at least he doesn’t sound like a helium-sucking weasel this time. His last borrowed body had given him the heebs, even from inside it.

Dean pushes himself to his feet, scrunching his nose at the weirdly familiar, pungent odor soaked into his clothes. He can’t quite put his finger on what it reminds him of, so he pushes it out of his brain and reaches down for the machete. This dude must have had it with him for a reason. There’s a sudden masculine wail of pain from off to his right. …And Dean guesses that’s probably the reason.

He warily jogs over to the source of the noise to find a man, standing, but curled up against the trunk of one of the pine trees with his head ducked under his bent arm. Dean tentatively clears his throat. “Uh, hey.” The man’s ashen blond hair comes into view as he jerkily unwinds himself from the tree and fixes Dean with a pair of shockingly pale blue eyes. “Sam?” Dean chuckles and shoves his earlier worry away, then steps closer to his brother. But Sam just winces harshly and buries his head back into his elbows. Dean pauses again. “Dude, what’s wrong?”

Sam groans and curls tighter into himself. “Why the hell is it so bright?" 

Dean squints up at the tree cover. It’s daytime, sort of, but it isn’t that bright at all. Any sun that should be up there is covered by a thick layer of pale clouds, and the pine trees are doing an even better job of blocking out most of the light. “What are you talking about?” he asks gently. He’s definitely confused by Sam’s weirdo statement, but he’s willing to take the time to coax out an answer. Anything to explain his brother’s strange behavior.

But Sam just makes another pitiful noise against the bark. “It hurts, Dean.”

“What hurts, man?” Sam shakes his head and groans again as Dean comes up to rest a hand on his shoulder. He’s starting to get a little worried now. “C’mon, Sammy. What’s up?” His brother takes a deep breath, then freezes, _rigid_. Dean’s brow furrows with concern as he tries to lean around to catch a glimpse of his brother’s face. “Sam?” 

Sam spins just enough to shove him away violently, his hands hard and frantic against Dean’s collarbone. Then he flips around again, facing away from him. “Dean, you have to get away from me. Right the fuck now!”

“Dude, what the hell?” Dean rubs the shoulder his brother had pushed. This guy he’s wearing must be pretty out of shape, because that really shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did. And the guy Sam’s currently wearing is a long, pale streak of nothing.

Sam hunches in even further on himself, looking like he’s trying to implode himself into a harmless ball of lanky limbs. “Dean, fuck off! I’m serious!”

“Christ, Sam. What crawled up your ass and died?” His brother lets out a strangled sound and Dean reaches out again, then abruptly stops in his tracks. His hand is frozen in the air, halfway to Sam’s back, as he suddenly realizes why that earlier smell had seemed so familiar. Saffron, skunk’s cabbage, and trillium.

Best way to fuck with the senses of a vampire. 

“Jesus, Sammy.” Dean glances down at himself and feels a cold chill settle into the pit of his stomach as the machete also starts making perfect sense. “He’s a goddamn hunter.” 

“Dean, please. You have to go away. _Please_.” Sam scrubs his forehead against the rough bark and slams his eyes shut. “I can hear it, man. Oh god, I can hear your fucking _blood_. And I just want to…” he trails off, “And I can’t—” Sam lets out another quiet whimper. “Please, Dean!” 

“Okay. It’s okay, Sam.” Dean knows what’s going on now, and he can handle this. Hell, he knows _exactly_ what his brother is dealing with here. “You’re gonna be fine.” He drops the machete to the forest floor and feels a flicker of satisfaction as it thumps harmlessly to the ground. Because no asshole hunter is going after his brother, even if that asshole hunter is currently _him_. “It’s okay, you’re not gonna hurt me.” 

“You don’t know that!” 

“Yes I do, Sam.” Dean stops where he is and holds up his palms. “Look, I’m not gonna move from here, alright?” Sam digs his fingers into the bark of the tree, but minutely shifts his head to glance at him. “See? I’m staying right here.” His brother doesn’t say anything, but at least Dean’s got his attention now. “I’m gonna stay exactly this far away from you. Okay, Sammy? And we’re gonna get you inside where it’s darker and we’re gonna deal with this.” 

Sam flinches at the reminder of the light, then lets out a broken half-laugh. “No, we’re not.”

“The fuck you mean ‘no’?”

“I mean, isn’t it obvious?” Sam’s face crumples again. “It’s me, man. I’m the bad guy this time.”

Dean sighs. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am!” Sam snaps. “I’m a fucking _vampire_ , Dean.”

“No, _you’re_ not. And I don’t care if I have to head over to the nearest prison to shank some random murderer, but I’m getting us kicked into some other deal. Something with less fangs, okay?” But Sam just moans, closes his eyes, and turns back to his tree. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Dean gripes. “Work with me here, Sam.”

“Dean, you have to leave. I’m going to bite you,” Sam whispers into the trunk in front of him.

And that’s it, Dean’s had enough. “No, you’re not.” He moves in closer, ignoring his brother’s warning growl. “’Cause I’ve been through this, remember? Did I bite you?” Sam hesitates for a moment, then shallowly shakes his head and fixes Dean with a nervous glare. “Exactly. So we’re gonna be fine.” Dean decides to jump all the way into the deep end with both feet, and stretches a hand up to run his fingers through Sam’s pale blond hair. Just like he did on the last go. Just like he does whenever his brother is falling asleep in some crummy motel bed and isn’t aware enough to make fun of him for it. “So get your ass away from this fucking tree and follow me and let me fix this, okay?” 

Sam lets out a long, miserable sigh. “Dean, I don’t know if I can.”

“C’mon, I’ve gotta smell like shit, right?” Sam huffs, and at least he gets a small nod out of his brother. Dean tugs at his saffron-coated jacket. “Yeah. No way are you hungry when I smell like this.” Sam smiles despite himself and his teeth are flat, and the last knot of tension coiled up in Dean’s chest loosens. “See? So stop laying around like some lazy bitch and let’s go find this asshole’s car. Or truck,” Dean teases lightly. “He’s probably got a truck.” 

Sam snorts and glances down Dean’s body. “Yeah, I’m going with truck.” 

Dean grins. “Yeah, me too.” He backs away a few feet, just to make it easier on his brother, and intentionally steps over the machete in the dirt.

Sam frowns. And it looks weird without his usual caveman forehead. “Dean, pick that up.”

“Nope.” He stands a few feet back and crosses his arms. “Don’t need it.”

“ _Dean_.” Sam rolls his eyes. “This gesture you’re making is very sweet, but don’t be an idiot.”

“Fuck you, I’m not sweet.” Dean sniffs. “I just don’t want some other dude’s crappy machete, that’s all. Wouldn’t want my good one back home to get all jealous.” 

Sam huffs acerbically and bends down to grab the weapon. “You’re acting like a child. What if I do something? You’re gonna need this.”

“You want it? Keep it. I ain’t touching the thing.” He turns on his heel and tramps back the way he came, only briefly checking to make sure his brother is following him. “C’mon, Count Chocula. The quicker we find this dude’s ride, the quicker we can get you some sunglasses.” 

Sam almost whimpers at the thought of a respite from the light, and Dean has to hide a small, relieved smile.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

“Dean, stop drooling,” Sam complains dryly.

“Look at this, man. This has gotta be—what do you think—a ‘52?” Dean runs his fingers down the sleek lines of the cherry-red pickup. “A ’52 F1, gotta be. Look at the grill on this baby.”

“ _Dean_.”

“Keep your pants on, Lestat. I’m just admiring the merchandise.”

Sam is standing an unnecessarily ridiculous fifteen feet away from him, and fiddling with the machete in his hands. “And just imagine, Dean. You could totally sit in it and drive it if you’d actually stop molesting it for one second. Wouldn’t that be fun.”

“I’m not molesting the truck,” Dean scoffs. Then he waggles his eyebrows. “She likes it.”

“Oh, dear god. You realize that I can hear your heartbeat, right?” Sam shifts uncomfortably and looks like he’d rather be in a wooden stake factory. Huh. Dean wonders if vampire jokes are allowed yet, or if it’s still too soon. Sam crosses his arms over his chest, which is a little awkward with the sharp weapon in his hands. “I am _forced_ to be painfully and embarrassingly aware of what is happening here.”

“C’mon, Sammy.” Dean grins and pats down his pockets for the keys. “Man can’t get excited about a car? What have we come to?” Sam mumbles something under his breath that Dean can’t quite catch, but he’s sure it’s properly insulting and snarky. He figures he can beat it out of his brother later, when he doesn’t have a ton of unfair vampire strength on his side.

The long-ass walk to hunter dude’s truck had been irritating for an infinite number of reasons. Mainly because Dean had filled his monthly quota for unnecessary nature hikes back at Fort Custer, and having to trek through two freezing forests in two days (three days?) is unpleasant enough, even _without_ the second one being miserable and damp enough to drown a small family of elk. And it’s not like it’s even raining either, the moisture just seems to be hanging in the air specifically to piss Dean off. Then, adding to his list of why nature sucks ass, especially this week, was the endless tromping and searching through brush trying to figure out where this guy’s wheels were hidden. Dean knew no hunter worth his salt (ha) was gonna leave his vehicle out in plain sight, especially if he was going after vamps. Which, unfortunately for them, meant hours of walking around in circles and tripping over stupid pinecones and Sam annoyingly whining about having no idea what a car was supposed to smell like, so please stop asking him, and why don’t you do it if it’s so easy, Dean?

Speaking of Sam… Dean tosses a subtle glance back at his brother, but he doesn’t seem to have budged any from his chosen stance of _‘Please cut my head off because I’m a self-righteous idiot’_. Sam had spent the entirety of the three-hour search as far back from Dean as physically possible. Which was no problem for him because he could hear Dean’s quietest mutters without even trying, but he failed to grasp the concept that a thirty-foot boundary between the two of them made communication frustratingly impossible on Dean’s end. Not to mention, giving Dean’s borrowed body a mini heart attack every time his brother slipped too far out of his sight. Dean had made a fuss about eye lines and Sam had slunk a little closer, but then his continued wincing at the brightness of the great outdoors had Dean cringing in empathy. He’d offered up his jacket as a makeshift sunshade, but his brother had made a face and grumbled something about being fine. Which was dumb because he obviously wasn’t. But the day Sam Winchester admits to actually needing help is the day Dean will wax his Baby with steel wool.

And the thought of his car, probably lonely and missing him, brings Dean back to the slightly less impressive ride in front of him. He unlocks the door and starts to slip inside, then pauses once he realizes that Sam still hasn’t moved. “Let’s go, man. Look, I’m driving the car just like you wanted.” 

He figured he’d at least get an eye roll out of his brother, but Sam is just standing there, miserable and stone faced. “Dean, I can’t get in the car with you." 

“Oh, come on—”

“No. I’m serious.” Sam stares down at his hands and refuses to look at him. “It’s already really hard, man. I can’t get that close to you. And in a small space like that…” He trails off and rubs at his forehead. “Look, I’ll just catch up or something.”

“Sam,” Dean sighs tiredly, “We just went over this. I didn’t bite you, you’re not gonna bite me. So let’s go.”

Sam’s fists tighten at his sides. “Well maybe I’m just not that good at avoiding temptation when it comes to _blood_ ,” he snarls.

Sam’s eyes are fixed on the ground, but they’re as cold as the thin ice the two of them are now skating on. They’ve managed to slide onto a touchy and dangerous subject for both of them, and if either one touches any more raw nerves, they’re gonna end up at each other’s throats. Maybe _literally_ in Sam’s case.

Dean pushes down any possibly risky responses, then steps out of the cab and shuts the door. “Okay, you take the truck.”

“Dude, no.” 

Dean leans back against the side and purposefully crosses his arms. “I ain’t gonna leave you out here by yourself.” He sweeps a hand over himself. “Apparently, there are hunters around.”

Sam’s expression goes stormy. Full-out. Thunder and lightning and the whole shebang. “I’m a monster,” he mutters darkly. “Pretty sure I can handle a few humans.” 

Dean’s mouth tightens. “Sam, don’t.” 

“Don’t what? It’s true.” Sam fixes him with a sullen glare, and Dean can’t handle any more of his brother’s self-deprecating bullshit today. Or, maybe it’s been two days. Whatever—this _week_. Body jumping is stupidly confusing.

“Get in the fucking car, Sam. You want to sit back in the bed, fine. But I’m not leaving you here.” 

And Sam looks like he’s actually considering that for a moment, but then his face closes off again and shakes his head. “Look, Dean, it’s really not a big deal. I can smell you. You’re…” His pale lips twist up into an almost-smile. “It’s strong, okay? With the herbs and all. I can follow you.”

Dean lets out a tense sigh. He knows from experience that Sam _can_ , he’s just worried that this vampire shit is giving his brother a stupid complex. And he’s gonna get his idiot head chopped off while he’s out emo-moping around. Sam takes a step backward and Dean growls, “Don’t you dare.”

“Look, I’ll be right behind you, alright?” Sam pauses for one last glance at Dean, then slips into the dense thicket of trees, the black of his clothing immediately melting into the darkness of the forest.

Dean starts forward automatically, years of instinct urging him to follow his brother, to keep him in sight at all times. But he pulls himself back against the futile compulsion and yells his frustration into the trees instead. “Fuck you, asshole!” He’s sure that Sam’s fast enough that there’s no way he’d be able to catch up on foot. But he’s also sure that Sam’s stupid vampire ears can hear everything he says, no matter how far he’s gone already. “If you’re not at my motel room in twenty minutes, I’m gonna find you and pump you so full of dead man’s blood you won’t be able to walk for a month! You hear me, Sam?”

There’s no response because of course there isn’t, and Dean angrily wrenches open the cab door. He’s about to slide inside when he notices a streak of silver lying against the red of the truck bed. It’s the fucking machete. His stupid fang brother had managed to slip it into the back of the truck without Dean even noticing.

Dean tilts his head up toward the forest and screams, “Don’t tempt me!”

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Dean manages to find hunter guy’s motel room with less effort than he’d first expected. Of course, he still has no idea what the man’s real name is. All of the IDs and cards in his wallet and glove box read Tim McGraw and Hank Williams. And although a quick, stolen glance in the rearview mirror had shown Dean that the face situation wasn’t nearly as bad as he was fearing, he’s still definitely no country star. The guy (Tim, Dean’s gonna call him Tim) had a key laid out under the parking brake with a _Heppner Lodging_ tag, Room 36, and a quick web search on Tim’s phone let Dean know they were in northeast Oregon. It was surprisingly uncomplicated from there to find the motel’s address and make his way down the winding mountain pass and into the quaint little town nestled below. The motel was simple to spot, right off the main street, and Tim’s key unlocked Room 36, easy as pie. Because at least some things had to be painless, given how the rest of today was going.

The motel room itself, however, is pretty fucking terrifying. Which is really much more in line with what Dean expects from his crappy Winchester luck. One smallish queen bed sits tucked up into a corner and a patchwork blaze of red, white, and blue is garishly splashed onto the curtains and comforter, the decor culminating in a giant American flag pinned up against the back wall. It looks like Betsy Ross had a few too many Sam Adams and vomited colonialism all over the entire space. 

“God bless America,” Dean mutters under his breath, then moves around the room to draw all of the bright red curtains closed. Part of him wants to leave them open, so he can catch a glimpse of Sam from the lot or maybe just to spite him with a bit of painful light (serves him right), but Dean can’t quite bring himself to be that petty when his little brother’s hurting. He even makes sure to click off the overhead and bedside lamps, casting the room into a deep, shadowy gray. The diffused, ambient sunlight from the cloudy haze outside lights a silver ring around the edges of each window. And it leaves Dean enough to see by, but that really isn’t saying much.

Dean sighs and surveys his handiwork. “Alright. Ready whenever you are, bitch.” 

“Wow. God bless America,” drifts a voice from out of the shadows.

“Jesus fuck!” Dean whirls around, heart pounding, but calms at the sight of his brother awkwardly leaning against the kitchenette table. He slowly releases the grip he’s got on the gun tucked into Tim’s jeans, and glares at Sam’s silhouette.

Sam yanks his hands up in a fervent display of remorse. “Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” From what Dean can make out of the vague shadow of his face, Sam looks like even more of a kicked puppy than usual. “I’m sorry.” 

Dean takes a breath and waits for his heart rate to go down, then raises a casual hand, wordlessly accepting his brother’s apology. He stares at Sam for a moment, unconsciously cataloguing for injuries other than self-recrimination, then changes the subject. “You run into any trouble on the way here?” 

Sam’s shadow lifts a shoulder. “Nah, just a couple of hunters.” 

“What??” Dean barks. 

Sam flinches at the sound. “No—sorry. I mean, like _hunters_.” He takes a preemptive step forward, then seems to think better of it and moves back again. “Orange-vest hunters. Like, for deer and stuff.” 

Dean exhales and scrubs a hand over his face. And Sam looks miserable enough already, so he grudgingly lets it go. “How the fuck did you get in here, man?” he asks, maneuvering around his brother and making a beeline to the small fridge. He hopes against hope that Tim’s at least got some beer in there. “You fly in through the bathroom window?”

Sam breathes out a tiny huff of air, and it _almost_ sounds amused. “Yeah. I turned into mist and snuck in through the keyhole.” He accepts the microbrew Dean hands him, but still manages to stand as far away as he bodily can. “You, uh—” He leans back against the corner wall, looking like he wants to melt into the patriotically painted plaster. “You left the front door open. I thought you heard me come in.”

Dean pauses. “Uh, no.” Sam curls in on himself more and he wants to wipe away the penitent look on his brother’s face. “Must’ve been my fault. Not paying attention, y’know?”

Sam lets out a small, humorless laugh. “Yeah, must’ve been.”

Dean takes a pull from the IPA in his hand, which is cold and bitter and perfect after tromping through the woods for hours, then gestures at his brother with the bottle. “You know you’re allowed to drink that, right?” He tries for a smile. “Unless you want me to get you some True Blood or something.” Sam’s mouth twitches, but he just picks at the edge of the paper label. So Dean clears his throat and tries for a different tack to clear the awkward silence. “How are the lights in here? Better?” His brother nods mutely, but still won’t look up from the damp bits of paper he’s shredding. Dean lets out a harsh breath. “C’mon, Sam. What do you want me to do here?” He slides out the single chair and sits, ignoring Sam’s flinch at his proximity. “You wanna try Samuel’s jungle juice?” 

Sam sighs (look at that, actual communication) and clunks his unopened bottle back onto the table. “We don’t even know who this guy is, Dean.” Sam tugs at the front of his track jacket. “He’s probably killed tons of people,” he says sourly.

“You don’t know that, Sammy. Maybe he’s a vegan.” Dean tilts his head and tries for light-hearted. “Only the finest deer and bunnies.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Sam responds dryly. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans and hunches his shoulders up. “It’s not like we have any idea who turned him anyway.”

Dean rubs a hand over his eyes. “I know, Sam. I’m just trying to help.”

His brother stands silently for a long stretch of time, still as death. Dean stops trying for awkward chit-chat, and Sam doesn’t speak again until Dean has finished his beer. “Where’s the machete?” Sam asks quietly.

“In the truck bed,” Dean growls, “Where your bitch ass left it.”

Sam bites at his lip. “Do you want me to go get it?”

“No, Sam!” Dean thumps his fist onto the table. “Stop trying to get me to cut your damn head off!” His brother winces at the volume, but stubbornly refuses to break their staring contest until Dean eventually concedes. Because he _chooses_ to, not because Sam actually won or anything. He sighs and drop his head into his hands. “What the hell, man? …Is it really that bad?”

His brother pins him with his familiar mournful stare, and it really pisses Dean off that his eyes are the wrong color. Sam twists his expression up into something sad and far away. “I don’t know how long we’re gonna be stuck like this, Dean. And if you won’t stop me— _him_ , whatever—then I’m not sure how we’re gonna get out of this go-round.” Sam exhales tiredly and slumps a little against his corner of the wall. “And yeah, it’s bad now…but it’s just gonna get worse.”

Dean contemplates his brother’s fatalistic (but not unrealistic) attitude, and runs his tongue over the edge of his own teeth. Then he pushes away from his chair and stands. “Alright.” Dean shrugs out of his jacket. “I’ve been there before, I get it. If it’s that bad, then you can have mine. Or _his_ , whatever.” He rolls up the flannel of his sleeve. “You’re not gonna kill me. So, just take as much as you need.” 

“No! _Jesus_ ,” Sam sputters. “I’m not gonna drink your _blood_.”

“It’s fine, Sammy. This ain’t my first rodeo.”

Sam’s gaze instantly goes hard, like flint. “Why? Is that what you did with Benny?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Dean rolls his eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”

“No, seriously,” Sam snaps, “I want to know.” 

Dean balks at his brother’s sudden shift in mood. “Sam. Stop it.”

His brother’s mouth curls unpleasantly. “Did you let a _monster_ sink his teeth into you just because he asked nicely?”

“I can’t believe we’re actually talking about this.” Dean yanks his empty beer bottle off the table and hurls it into the trash as loudly as he can. “Benny is a good guy. I’ve told you a million times.” He jabs a finger at his brother. “But I cut him off anyway because of _your_ little issues." 

“Wow, Dean. I’m so sorry I singlehandedly destroyed your relationship with the only person you could ever trust,” Sam spits. “Feel free to go run off to your _real_ brother.”

“Jesus Christ, I didn’t _mean_ that. That was the fucking spectre, man.” Dean crosses his arms. “You seriously wanna play the blame game with ghost possession? ‘Cause I distinctly remember you _shooting_ me in the chest once.” Dean doesn’t usually bring that one up. It’s an ace in the hole saved for very important arguments. Like whose turn it is for laundry duty. 

Sam’s eyes bore into him, cold like ice. “Did you fuck him?”

“God! What? _No_.” Dean makes a face at the abrupt (and _disturbing_ ) subject change. “I kind of had more important things to deal with last year,” he sneers. “You know, like trying not to get my _face_ chewed off in Purgatory.” Dean pauses for a second, but can’t hold back the snide barb waiting behind his teeth. “Sure didn’t stop you, though.” 

Sam’s expression darkens. And if his face had any blood in it, Dean’s sure he’d be a deep crimson. “Since when do you care who I sleep with?”

“I don’t. You brought it up, asshole.”

His brother continues to glower at him, not even a twitch to suggest he’ll back down. “You didn’t answer my question, Dean.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re being a pissy bitch, Sam.”

“…Did you let him bite you?” Sam’s tone is low and unnaturally composed. And Dean somehow thinks that Sam would take this second offense worse than if he actually _had_ been fucking Benny.

Dean is tempted to lie for one cruel second, just to twist the shards lodged in both of their hearts, for no reason other than the petty meanness of it. But instead he stares calmly at his brother, voice even, and says, “No.”

The air seems to settle somewhat at his quiet admission. But it feels more stagnant than cleared, the space between them heavy with anger and hurt. And Dean is really fucking pissed at Sam for dredging all this shit up again after they’d finally swept it under the rug, so he spitefully adds, “But if he’d have ever asked… I’d have said yes.”

The fuming, choking silence that follows is almost worse than the argument itself. They’re locked in a stalemate death glare, both waiting for the other one to give them some flimsy excuse to snap. Until Dean eventually turns away, clenches his teeth, and growls, “Go find a cow or something to drink, it should be dim enough by now.” He turns completely, giving Sam his back, and stiffly walks toward the small bathroom. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

“Good. You stink,” Sam snarls.

“Pretty sure that was the point!” And it’s such a stupid line to end on, but it’s the best Dean’s got, so he slams the bathroom door for emphasis. Loud emphasis. He hopes Sam’s cringing in the other room. He also makes sure to turn the shower on full blast before Sam can escape the entirety of the noise.

Dean drags his head up to stare at Tim’s reflection in the mirror and fights the urge to put his fist through the glass. Or shave his stupid beard off. Dean doesn’t feel like himself and he feels too much like himself and he’s already sick of watching his brother’s emotions light up another man’s eyes. Dean considers breaking the mirror again, shattering it until sharp lines spiderweb across the surface, disjointing his appearance into a hundred, little carnival funhouse pieces of someone else’s face. Or maybe he could just slice his hand open and smear the glass with his own blood. Anything to mask the stranger looking back at him. But instead, Dean just sighs and starts peeling off the layers of smoke-sour flannel. If he turns the water up hot enough, the steam will distort his reflection on its own. And that’s something like approaching peace. Almost.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

It’s hours later before his brother comes slinking back through the motel door. And Dean hears him this time.

He’d found some clean clothes in the leather bag beside the nightstand, and is thoroughly enjoying the absence of the horrible odor that had been following him all day. Dean had pitched the soiled garments out of the high bathroom window, and if Tim really wants them back after he’s gone, he can go scrounging around the parking lot for them later.

Dean is relaxing on the single bed in the room, fully dressed except for his boots, arms crossed over his chest, and eyes shut. But he is very, _very_ awake. He remains there, lying in wait, until the telltale snick of the lock alerts him to Sam’s presence, along with the almost palpable wave of guilt that comes wafting in behind his brother. There’s a noticeable moment of silence after the quiet click of the door, but Dean doesn’t move a muscle. Sam must be looking him over, but he doubts that his brother thinks he’s actually asleep. Then there’s another small click, and the soft padding of footsteps bringing Sam close, much closer than earlier. A gentle weight settles on the foot of the bed, but Dean refuses to be the one to break the reproachful silence he’s got going on.

“I shouldn’t have said that.” Sam words are soft, like he’s sorry for even speaking them aloud. “All that stuff earlier. I didn’t mean it.”

Dean remains peaceful and unmoving for a few steady breaths, then speaks without opening his eyes. “So, you’re done being a dickhead?”

Sam’s weight shifts on the bed slightly, like he’s hunching in on himself. “I’m done if you’re done,” he mumbles crankily. 

Dean’s lips quirk up, despite his best intentions. “Yeah. I’m done.” He repositions himself, scooting up against the headboard, and finally meets his brother’s uncertain eyes. Ah well. So much for the gruff, silent treatment he’d been planning on to really make Sam sweat. Dean sweeps his gaze over the room in the fading evening light (what little manages to make it past the heavy curtains that is) and feels a small twinge of guilt as his eyes settle on the pair of dark sunglasses sitting in the middle of the small table. He glances over at Sam, who is apparently intensely invested in studying the subtle weave of the carpet, and wonders if he lifted them from the nearest little tourist trap or if he actually went up to the counter to purchase them. Following proper store etiquette in order to make up for being a vampire seems like a Sam thing to do.

“I’m under a little bit of stress right now,” Sam admits to the floor. 

Dean smiles. “Just a little bit?”

His brother lets out an annoyed huff of air, then turns to face him, resting his bony forearms on his thighs. “I’m trying to apologize here, jerk.” 

“Oh, is _that_ what you’re doing?” Dean asks mockingly, but the gentle upturn of his lips belies any actual malice. He gently tugs on his brother’s knee until he’s got Sam facing him, sitting Indian-style on the bed, then rubs at Sam’s ankle. “You get something to eat?”

Sam’s expression crumples and he looks like he’s gonna be sick. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I think it— I think it was a mountain goat or something.” He grimaces. “I couldn’t find a cow.” 

Dean strangles back the urge to laugh while Sam is so obviously distraught. “That’s not so bad, Sammy.” He grins and adds, “Just like Indian food. A little goat korma never hurt anyone.”

Sam groans and makes another face. “Ugh, I wish. It was _disgusting_.”

“Doesn’t matter what it tastes like if it’s gonna keep you functioning. Not fainting in the middle of the job is what matters.”

His brother scoffs and rolls his eyes. “You sound like Dad.”

“I _look_ like Dad,” Dean grumbles under his breath.

Sam chuckles softly, then traces a thumb over the back of Dean’s hand. “Yeah, little bit.” 

Dean wraps his fingers around Sam’s cold wrist and only freaks out a little bit when he doesn’t find the comforting thump of a pulse. “So how is it, Nosferatu? You think you’ll be able to resist sucking me down now?” Dean raises a playful eyebrow to highlight the innuendo, and Sam actually looks amused for once in his life. Er…afterlife. 

“You really want my teeth anywhere _near_ your dick while I’m like this?” Sam asks teasingly. Dean winces at his brother’s very valid point, and Sam proceeds to answer his actual question. “Yeah, it’s not so bad now.” He shrugs as he corrects himself. “I mean, it _is_ bad. But not too bad.” Sam closes his eyes and sighs blissfully. “But you smell really good without all that fucking smoke all over you.”

“Aw, Sammy. You sure know how to make a girl feel special.”

Sam hesitates, and then glances up at him. “Was it like this for you too?” he asks haltingly. “I mean, did I smell… _different_ than other people?”

Dean groans good-naturedly. “Do we really have to play a round of ‘How pretty am I?’ right now? ‘Cause I’m not exactly in the mood.” Sam looks mildly irritated and pulls his hands back, so Dean rolls his eyes and sarcastically replies, “You’re the most beautiful princess at the ball, Sam. Every day without you is like a blight on my soul, or some shit.” He grabs his brother’s wrists back. “There, are we done?”

“You’re an ass. Why do I even like you?”

Dean smirks. “Maybe you need more self-respect.”

“Yeah, I need _something_ alright,” Sam says sardonically, pulling away to stand. “Better luck in relatives. Or better taste in…” he waves a hand between them, “… _this_.”

Dean only mentally flinches a little at Sam’s last comment. At least he didn’t say something inexcusable. Like ‘lovers’. Or _‘boyfriends’_. Dean shudders internally.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Sam tosses Dean’s wet, used towel at his head. He nails him perfectly, his brother’s aim completely unaffected by the dim lighting. “I didn’t even say anything.”

“Yeah, but you were thinking it.” Dean accuses grumpily. “By the way, for the record— I would’ve been fine with ‘fuck buddy’, ‘hook-up’, or ‘hot guy who also happens to be astonishingly good in bed’.” 

The beginnings of a smile tugs at his brother’s lips. “Well, I wouldn’t want to be dishonest now, would I?” Dean’s only reply is a derisive snort, because he refuses to reward such an outright lie with a verbal response, and Sam smirks to himself. “How about ‘brothers-with-benefits’?”

Dean shudders again, outwardly this time. “Oh, god. That one’s just creepy.”

Sam smiles for real (it’s small but it’s there) and leans back against the corner he’d staked out earlier. Ha. _Staked_. “Okay, hot-guy-who-happens-to-be-decently-impressive-in-bed. What’s your big plan here?”

“You said it wrong. It’s ‘ _astonishingly-amazing_ -in-bed’.” 

“I think you’re adding adjectives.”

“I think maybe your vampire ears just suck.” And Dean can’t hold back the small chuckle at his first accidental pun. He grins at his brother. “That one was actually unintentional, believe it or not.”

Sam gives him a flat look. “Oh, I believe it. It was the only one that was even moderately funny.”

“Yeah, well, I should’ve spoken up earlier.” Dean plants a dry kiss on his brother’s forehead as he passes by to claim Sam’s untouched beer from before. “There was a ‘staked’ one that I was thinking about. Truly hilarious.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” 

Dean gropes around in the darkness until he finds the bottle, then twists the cap off and takes a pull of the now-warm liquid. It’s not the most pleasant drink he’s ever had, but there’s no point in letting it go to waste. “Like I said earlier, we’ll just have to find someone else _‘deserving’_ and—” he makes a clicking noise as he pantomimes slicing a thumb across his throat. “That should count enough to jump us into a better situation, and then we can deal with the rest of this whole thing from there. When you’re a little less 30 Days of Night.”

Sam bites at the inside of his lip. “And how are we supposed to just find some convenient murderer horrible enough to kill?” 

Dean shrugs his shoulders. “There’s a prison nearby. We can head out and take our pick of the most horrifying inmate.” He leans back in his chair. “It’ll kinda be like a Chinatown butcher shop.”

“ _Jesus Christ_ , Dean.” Sam reels back. “You’re talking about _people_. _Humans_. You’re really gonna go out and straight-up murder someone in cold blood?” 

Dean slams his bottle back against the table with a bit more force than necessary. The thin veneer of calm disinterest that Dean had draped over the unpleasant but unavoidable decision is starting to fray around the edges. “ _Yes_ , Sam,” he bites out, “I am.” He places both of his palms flat against the Formica. “Ask me if I want to.” Dean raises his seething eyes to meet his brother’s unsure ones, the pale blue is easy to pick out against the shadow of Sam’s face. “Go ahead,” he orders. “Ask me if I want to go out and _slaughter_ some dude like a fucking pig.” He shoves his chair out to advance on his brother. “Now ask me if I’m gonna do it anyway. Ask me if I’d do fucking _anything_ in order to make sure that you don’t have to live like this.”

“Dean,” Sam pleads quietly.

“Ask me if it’s even close to the worst thing I’ve done,” he finishes bitterly. “The worst thing I _would_ do.”

“Dean, I _know_ ,” Sam whispers. “It’s just—” He takes a breath and shifts almost imperceptibly away from Dean’s probably too-stupid and too-tempting presence. “How am I supposed to…? Look, it’s just— Where’s the line here, man?” 

Dean gives his brother a desperate look, and clenches his jaw before glancing away. “Innocents,” he says weakly, “That’s what it has to be.” He closes his eyes against his brother’s pained expression. “I know it used to be humans, but…” He sighs. “C’mon, man. We can’t stand here and just fucking _pretend_ that we don’t already have that blood on our hands. Like I haven’t— _we_ haven’t—done so much worse, so many times.” 

Dean takes a few focused breaths, in and out, and ignores Sam’s gaze. He doesn’t want to see whatever’s reflected in his brother’s eyes, because he’s not sure whether acceptance would feel more or less painful than disappointment right now. When Dean speaks again, his voice is quiet, but certain. “There’s a correctional facility in Umatilla, about an hour away from here. I looked it up earlier in the car.” He clears his throat and heads back over to his bed.

“You didn’t finish your beer,” Sam says softly. His tone is too careful for Dean to be able to read anything into it.

“I don’t want it.” Dean slumps down to sit at the edge of the mattress. “I’m tired, Sam. I have no idea how long I’ve been awake, or how long we’ve been doing this in our time, or how all this physical shit is affecting our souls versus the bodies we’re wearing, or any of it.” He rubs a hand over his eyes. “So I’m going to sleep. And I know you’re supposed to try to be nocturnal or whatever, but you’ve gotta be dying here too. So let’s just take four hours.” He throws his brother a pleading glance. “We can head over around eleven, get there by midnight, and it’ll still be dark enough that everything should be fine for you, okay?”

Sam is probably giving him one of his stupid, too-earnest expressions. Dean hates them. They always look sad. “Yeah, sure,” Sam says gently. “Get some sleep, Dean.”

Dean lets out a thankful sigh and crooks his fingers. “Okay, great. C’mere.” He glances up when Sam makes no effort to move. “Dude, there’s only one bed in here, so just stow it. Should be a dream come true for you anyway, you big girl.”

“Dean, that’s not smart.”

“Well, lucky for you, that’s something I’ve never claimed to be.”

Ah, and _there’s_ the patented Sam Winchester bitchface. Dean was wondering when it would come out to play. “I’m serious,” Sam says unhappily. “I shouldn’t be that close to you. It isn’t safe.” He shifts uncomfortably. “I’ll just take the floor. Not like it’s the first time.”

“Sam, you’re not sleeping on the floor when there’s a perfectly good bed.” 

“Well, I’m not gonna make _you_ take the floor.”

Dean scoffs. “ _I’m_ definitely not sleeping on the floor.” He lets out a frustrated groan at his brother’s stubborn refusal to do anything to make his life easier. “Seriously. What? You worried you’re gonna start sleep-eating all of a sudden?” 

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam whines. 

He wants to say that he’s never caught Sam sleepwalking to the fridge, so why would it be any different now? He wants to make a joke about Sam waking up covered in lettuce from an unconscious, late night salad binge. He wants to do anything that will steer them back into safer waters, or at least waters that are shallow enough that they can shove everything down and ignore this whole thing without drowning. But all Dean can say is, “Please, Sammy.” Exhausted and imploring. “Just…please.”

And damn if his brother doesn’t fold like a house of cards under Dean’s simple plea. He looks miserable as ever about it, but he slinks over to the bed and lies down stiffly, as far as he can get over to one side. Dean chooses to ignore his bullheaded idiocy and slides flush against him, slinging an arm over Sam's tense form. He’s holding himself rigid, awkward in his worry, and he doesn’t smell right, too cold and too stale. _Too dead_ —Dean’s mind unpleasantly supplies. But somehow, despite all of that, Sam still feels intrinsically, well… _Sam_. And that’s all Dean needs in order to drift off into a deep and overdue sleep.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“Dean.”

He’s woken up by a cold hand clamped onto the meat of his shoulder. “Hmm…whazza?” Dean pulls himself out from the shadows of a barely-remembered dream, something about a river, and blinks a few times as his consciousness swims back into focus. Sam is completely alert and devastatingly still beside him, staring into the darkness of the room beyond. He looks like a fucking bloodhound on point and Dean half expects him to start scenting the air. Actually, Dean concedes, that probably _is_ what he’s doing. He slides a hand under his pillow to wrap his fingers around Tim’s Browning, and tries to be as silent as possible until Sam gives him the all-clear.

“I smelled something,” his brother whispers under his breath. “It was close. It still is.” Sam frowns and turns his head to face the window on the nearest wall. “I think it’s outside.” 

Dean glances at the red, blocky numerals of the alarm clock on the nightstand. They’d overslept. It’s closer to twelve-thirty than he’d hoped, and every hour of darkness that passes is eating up the time that Sam is going to be useful at the prison. And now, this new hindrance is going to take even longer. Dean shifts beside his motionless brother as he mentally adds up how much time they can spend on this without delaying their plan for another whole day. The good news is that Dean is apparently bite-free, which means Sam didn’t chomp on him any while he was sleeping, which means that Dean was right. He tucks the information away to rub in his brother’s face later, once they aren’t dealing with some anonymous danger lurking outside of their motel room.

“What is it?” Dean whispers as quietly as he can. He can’t even hear his own words, but Sam lifts one shoulder slightly.

“I don’t know. It just smells weird.” His brother narrows his eyes. “Dead.”

Dean sniffs at the air. It’s not like he’s gonna be able to pick anything up that Sam wouldn’t, but he tries anyway. “Dead like Romero, rotting corpse dead? …Or dead like you?” 

Sam’s gaze lasers in on the window to the parking lot. “Dead like me.” 

Dean’s fingers tighten around his gun. “You think there’s another vamp?”

Sam remains silent, but he slides out of the sheets and stalks to the door. And Dean curses under his breath and takes a moment to castigate himself for leaving the machete in the truck. It was a stupid, _stupid_ move just to prove some overly-mushy point. Dammit. He knows better than that. And if there is another fang nearby, Dean’s going to be two steps away from useless without an appropriate weapon.

Sam glances back at him. Unnecessary, considering Dean’s going to be no help at all, but probably too ingrained for his brother to realize he’s doing it. Sam steels himself a final time, then turns the handle and swings the door open, exposing the room to the unknown. There’s a few more seconds of silence, and nothing Dean can see from his vantage point on the bed. Then Sam stiffens, wide-eyed.

“Oh, Killian. My love.” The low voice lilts in through the open doorway. “Are you inviting me in? How charmingly quaint.” There’s a pleased, feminine chuckle from right outside Dean’s eye line, and then a woman steps seductively into the room. “And they say chivalry is dead.”

Dean’s first thought is— _Huh, hot._ She’s erotic in the way dancers are, slow and sure in her movements like she’s confident in her whole being. A sweep of glossy, dark hair falls to her mid-back, and she’s dressed conservatively for the climate—leather jacket and dark jeans—yet somehow the flow of her limbs and the position of her body makes it seem like she’s almost unclothed. An intentional sensuality. She raises her heavy eyelashes to blink coyly at his brother, but the tense, nervous stare Sam has leveled in her direction is doing wonders to cool Dean’s initial attraction. 

“Why you act so shy, love?” Her words have the hint of an accent running through some of the sharper consonants, but Dean can’t exactly place it. She runs a dark fingernail up Sam’s chest. “After everything you’ve done here for me…” Sam is still frozen in place under her hands, probably unsure as to the best way of keeping everyone’s blood inside of their bodies. “You don’t need to worry, darling. I forgive you. I _love_ this.” She seizes the sides of his brother’s head and pulls him into a deep kiss, moaning as she tugs him against her. 

Sam is stoically unmoved in the face of her advances, hands intentionally up and out to the sides, but Dean still can’t shove down the smoky curl of anger that wisps up at the sight of some random pawing at his brother. Not that he generally cares who Sam makes out with, but he usually isn’t forced to watch it in real-time. He clears his throat pointedly and ignores Sam’s look of exasperation at calling attention to himself. “Can we help you, Zsa Zsa? You seem to be in the wrong room.” He shrugs casually but his glare is vicious. “It’s a simple enough mistake. Reading numbers can be hard.”

She flicks her dark eyes up to meet Sam’s. “He is very brave for human, yes?” 

“Uh…yes?” Sam throws him another desperate glance, looking completely at a loss for what he should be doing. Unfortunately, Dean doesn’t really have much of an idea either.

“Will he stay on the bed? I could tie him down, or break his legs if you think so.”

“Whoa— Wait, what?” Sam whirls her around to face him. “No!”

Dean clenches around the gun in his hand. Bullets ain’t gonna do squat against a vampire, but he might be able to shoot her eyes out and make it to the machete before she heals. Or Sam might be able to hold her off.

She hums and curls her fingers around Sam’s hands on her shoulders. “Killian,” she purrs. “We can leave him free. Do not fret. Anything you want, my love.” She snuggles up into Sam’s chest, completely oblivious to the look of awkward uncertainty painting his features. “When you talk about the animals, ‘only the animals’, I feel _ruşinat_ —” she breaks off for a moment to ponder the translation, “ _Ashamed_ about the humans I kill. This is why I hide this from you.” She licks a stripe up the underside of Sam’s jaw. “But now, darling… After all you do for me to bring him here.” She nuzzles in again. “I love this.”

“No— What? No!” Sam grips her wrists together and holds them off to the side. “We’re not killing anyone! You—” His brow creases as he goes over her earlier statements. “You said you were drinking animals?”

She sighs petulantly and tugs at her hands. “They are _dezgustător_ ,” she spits angrily, “ _Disgusting!_ I thought you love me and you do this for me. The humans are worthless. Below us. _Gunoi_. You used to think so as well.”

Sam’s glare could cut glass. “No one is hurting Dean,” he growls menacingly. “I’ll kill you myself if you even try.”

“What?” Her eyes blaze like a forest fire as she scoffs bitterly. “This is like American soap opera? You fall in love with bear man and you leave me?”

Dean feels insulted just on principle. “Whoa, hey now—”

“You are my mate!” she roars. “ _Nu vi se permite să mă lase!_ Why you bring him here? You want to turn him?” she sneers. “You want to bring him with us?” She adopts a mocking, low-pitched affectation. “’Oh, it’s fine, Renna. I love you forever, darling. I never need any other.’ Liar!” She whirls on him. _“Mincinos!”_

Sam’s still got a fairly strong hold on her arms, but after a few moments of futile struggling, she brings a knee up to smash into his groin. His brother’s eyes bug out of his head as he stumbles back, and Dean sucks in a breath and cringes in sympathy. Renna spins to fix Dean with a predatory glare and slowly stalks forward, ignoring Sam’s wheezing behind her. 

Dean brings his arm up steady until his handgun is level with her face. “Think carefully, Vampirella.” He cocks back the hammer. “This won’t kill you, but two to the kneecap ain’t gonna feel like no picnic, either.”

She gives no sign of even hearing a single thing he’s said, still pacing relentlessly forward. “Did Killian tell you he was mated? Did he even make _mention_ of me?” Her fangs descend, garbling and rounding out the words in her mouth. “You try and steal him from me? You think you won’t end up _dead?”_

“Fair enough.” Dean lowers the gun and fires three solid rounds into her chest, one after the other, and the shots echo off the thin walls. His grouping is flawless. Heart and two lungs. 

She doesn’t hesitate for more than a second. There’s a long gasping sound, like air being let out of a balloon, as she tries to pull in a breath to speak. The lack of oxygen won’t affect her physically, but she needs it for words. And lucky for Dean, Renna seems to be a chatty bitch. “I will take you from him,” she hisses. Then there’s another rasping inhale as all three holes solidify in front of his eyes. “Like you took him from me.”

She crouches back to pounce just as Sam bodily tackles her from the side. “Go, Dean!” He slams her head to the floor and shouts again, “Go!” 

And he’s just going to have to trust his little brother’s freaky undead strength to hold out, because there’s no way they’re making it away from this if Dean doesn’t get his hands on Tim’s machete. He leaps off the bed and through the open doorway, wincing at Sam’s hiss of pain behind him, as he legs it to the truck. Luckily, the wilderness style of the motel lends to the rooms being isolated, almost cabin-like, and they probably won’t have to deal with any rubberneckers following the sound of gunshots.

Dean tears across the parking lot, feeling his bare feet quickly numb against the freezing damp of the asphalt, and nearly slipping in one of the shallow puddles filling an uneven dip in the blacktop. It’s only drizzling, but Dean’s heart feels like it’s full of ice. The thought of his brother handling a vampire on his own doing more to chill him than the stinging rain pelting down around his ears. He finally makes it to Tim’s truck and snatches the machete out of the bed with a metallic, scraping noise. The plastic handle is wet and rough in his hand, and Tim is gonna probably throw a fit after the blade rusts from improper care, but the only thing Dean can think about right now is making it back into the room before he’s too late.

He dashes back across the lot, sweeping the drenched, too-long hair away from his face, and bounds up to the room just in time to see Renna take a savage bite out of his brother’s neck. “No!” Dean swings his arm in a vicious arc, but the bitch is too fast for him, and the blade ends up sunk into the other side of the wall. She leaves him with one last snarl, then hightails it out of the motel, disappearing into the rain outside.

“No. No, no, no, _nonono_ …” Dean’s rambling to himself like a lunatic as he violently kicks the door shut and frantically hovers over his brother’s injury. “Oh _god_. Sammy—” 

“I’m fine,” Sam winces, then he brings a hand up to staunch the almost comical flow of blood from his throat. Dean dementedly wonders whose it is for a moment. If it’s all from that fucking mountain goat earlier. Sam chokes a little, but manages to press a palm against most of the wound. “I’m okay,” he rasps. “You scared her off before she could finish the job.”

“She got your neck, Sam!” Dean has to physically force himself to breathe in order to prevent himself from asphyxiating out of sheer panic. “This is how vampires get dead.” 

“Well, my head’s still fucking attached, man.”

“Yeah, _barely!”_

Sam’s eyelids flutter weakly, and he looks like he’s fighting off a severe migraine. “It’ll heal, Dean.”

Dean halts his nervous pacing. “…You’re right,” he says determinedly. “It will. With blood.” 

Sam sighs. “I can’t really go out and get some right now.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’re eating in tonight.”

Sam’s eyes fly open at Dean’s insinuation. “ _No_. Absolutely not.”

Dean glares at his brother, sick of his stubborn stupidity and his never ending chain of death wishes. He inhales calmly. Deliberately. “Try and hold back then.” Sam’s glare goes immediately furious, white-hot, and he looks like he’s trying to bore holes through his head. Dean can’t hold back the humorless chuckle. “If looks could bruise, Sammy.”

“Don’t you dare, Dean.”

Dean ignores his brother’s threatening growl and yanks the machete out of the wall. “Tell you what, Sam. I’ll even give you five more seconds.” He tilts his head patronizingly as Sam’s eyes darken. “Five…four…three… You still bleeding out?” He crouches down into Sam’s space. “Two…” He lifts the blade and places it against the crook of his elbow.

“Don’t you fucking _dare_.”

“One…” Dean slices along the inside of his arm until a thin line of crimson wells up against the skin. Then he slices again to widen the gash.

“Dean…” Sam’s words are thick around the mouthful of daggers sprouting from his gums. “Stop.”

“No dice.” Dean tangles a hand into the back of his brother’s ashen hair and brings his dripping elbow up to Sam’s mouth. “C’mon, Dark Shadows. Dinnertime.”

“Dean, no.” His brother’s protests are weaker now, whether from lack of blood or lack of self-control, and the objections from his brain can’t disguise the hunger in his gaze. “Please…”

Dean brings his arm up to press against his brother’s lips. _“Bon Appetit.”_

Sam lets out a final strangled groan, then his control snaps and he savagely latches onto the wound in Dean’s arm. His brother’s teeth shred apart the sensitive flesh, but Dean manages to hold back any sounds of pain. The smallest complaint, and Sam would probably find some way to pull back, bloodlust or no. 

“That’s it, Sammy,” Dean grimaces. He shivers at the feel of Sam’s tongue pressing and swirling along the incision, it’s almost delicious enough to dull the rest of the searing pain. Dean huffs out an almost-laugh. What kind of sicko does that make him? He gently tugs his brother’s head to the side, not enough to dislodge him, and watches as the gaping tear in his throat slowly begins to close. “That’s it, kiddo.” Sam nurses at the bloody mess for a few more minutes until finally, his neck is completely healed. 

“C’mon, Sam.” Dean tries to tug his arm back, but his brother growls and chases the movement. “Sam, _stop_.” He gets another snarl for his trouble. Dean falters against Sam’s side as a wave of light-headedness sweeps through him. “Seriously, dude? I do something nice for you and you’re gonna suck me dry?” He tries to struggle away, but Sam’s grip is like steel and Dean’s head falls to rest against Sam’s jaw. “Not cool, man.” He tugs again, then slumps tiredly into his brother’s body. “Sammy…” 

The nickname must do it, because suddenly Sam is shoving him away like he’s made out of… _something_. Something vampires hate. Dean must be more out of it than he thought if he can’t even quip in his own head. He struggles a little against the fog coating his brain. _Garlic_ , that’s it. Or crucifixes or something.

“Dean.” Sam paws at his face. “Dean, _fuck_. I’m sorry.” His brother sounds wrecked. Or terrified. The difference between the two has always been subtle. “I’m so sorry.”

“S’all good, Sammy,” Dean mumbles. “Portion control next time though…’kay?” He feels like he’s speaking through a slow haze. Is that a thing? Are hazes slow? 

“That was stupid, Dean!” Sam flounders about for a shirt to wrap around Dean’s raw elbow. “That was so damn _stupid_ of you.”

“Yeah?” He relaxes into his brother’s ministrations. “On a scale of one to ten, how stupid would it be to kiss you right now?”

“Um…seventy-two?” Sam frowns and checks his eyelids, probably looking for pupil dilation. “I spent the last ten minutes choking on my own blood, Dean. If you kiss me, you’re gonna turn.” Sam finishes tying off his arm, then pads over to the kitchenette for an indefinably long stretch of minutes. Or hours. Dean can’t tell. But thankfully, by the time Sam gets back, he feels like he might be slightly less loopy. “Here.” Sam shoves a glass of tap water under his nose. “Just drink this before you die of dehydration as _well_ as exsanguination.”

Dean groans and blearily squints up at his brother. Dried blood is crusted all along the flippy collar of Sam’s jacket and his chin is stained with red. “When a vamp bites another vamp… Does that count as dead man’s blood, you think?” 

“What?” Sam looks thrown by his random question. “I dunno. Why?”

Dean takes a few stale gulps from the glass in his hand. “She took a big ol’ chomp outta your neck, man. You think it mighta slowed her down any?”

“I’m not sure.” Sam seems calmer and more reassured now that Dean’s speaking in complete and reasonably intelligent sentences. “She probably spit it out instead of swallowing. I doubt it tastes very good.”

Dean chuckles as he drains the last of his water. “That’s the problem with a lot of chicks, Sammy.”

His brother manages to look decently amused at the obligatory joke, and grabs Dean’s empty glass to refill it again. “I’m still mad at you by the way,” he throws out over his shoulder. “That was a dumb fucking move.”

Dean groans as he reaches out to accept the second glass. “That’s what you say about all my moves.” He takes a few seconds to breathe, then turns to Sam again. “You think she split?” 

Sam sighs. “Doubt it. She’ll know I’m still alive.” He slants his eyes down judgmentally. “And she’ll be able to smell that you’re injured.”

“Intentional injury on my part. Doesn’t count.” He shoves himself up to standing, and only leans on Sam a little bit in order to do so. “We gotta find her. We manage to chop Queen of the Damned’s head off, and we’re home-free.” 

“Yeah, well you couldn’t chop suey right now.”

Dean frowns. “That’s a terrible joke, Sam. I’m ashamed to be related to you.”

His brother rolls his eyes. “Point stands, regardless. Unlike you.” He loosens his grip on Dean’s arm just to see him sway a little. ‘Cause he’s a petty bastard. “Seriously, Dean. You’re in no shape to go _skeet shooting_ right now, much less hunting down a fang.”

“Says the other fang,” Dean grumbles. 

“ _Yes_. Says the other fang.” Sam makes a frustrated noise. “Would you just listen to me for once in your life?”

“Sorry, Sam.” Dean pulls away from his brother’s hold and manages to keep himself upright. Good enough. “Why don’t you try again on the next go?”

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

 

Dean slips into an alley between the buildings of a ‘Les Schwab Tire Center’ and another yellow and teal something-or-other. It’s difficult to make out any identifiable signs in the downpour. Which seems to be making up for earlier by coming down in sheets now. He glances back at his brother behind him. “Can you smell anything?”

Sam sighs, and screws his lips up to one side. “A little, I guess. The rain’s not really helping here.” He hunches his shoulders up grumpily. “There’s a Thai restaurant down the street though. And a little past that is the Interstate. Any of that useful?” he asks sarcastically.

Dean tightens his grip on the machete in his hand as he creeps down the alleyway. “Probably a good thing, anyway. If you can’t smell her, she can’t smell us.” 

Sam gives him an uncertain look and follows a little more closely at his back. “Dangerous assumption to make,” he says under his breath.

Dean chooses to ignore his brother’s rationality and peers around the edge of the brick. “You said she was around here somewhere.”

“Yes, Dean,” Sam says huffily. “And then it started raining buckets. I might have lost her scent in the sudden downpour.” He grumbles as he swipes the liquid from his face. “It’s not like I’m new at this or anything.”

“Yeah, yeah. Cry me a river.”

Sam snorts. “Wouldn’t need to at this rate.”

“You know, you should really be more quiet when you are hiding.” They both spin around to face Renna’s silhouette, backlit against the streetlights and the rain. “If you are loud, I find you anyway." 

Dean wants to smash his forehead against the concrete. He’s been stressed and worried about Sam and he’s still slightly dizzy from his aborted bloodletting earlier, and it’s making them sloppy. Stupid, stupid mistake. 

He shifts into a defensive position, allowing Sam to slip by him and take up most of Renna’s attention. Just like they planned. His brother plants himself directly opposite her, face-to-face at each end of the alley. “Renna, forgive me.” Sam stands as formally as possible. They hadn’t been sure whether he should hint at an accent or something, but the fact that she didn’t notice anything amiss back in the motel probably means that vampire-dude is American. “You know how I get sometimes.”

Renna’s shadow pauses. “This is apology?”

Sam takes a small step forward. “Yes. Um…my love.” Dean wants to roll his eyes, but who knows what she’d be able to make out in the dark. Sam continues moving toward her outline. “You know I only care about you.”

She shifts a little, flattered. “Yes, I know. You are _nerod_ sometimes.”

Sam falters for a moment. “Yeah. Sure.”

She takes a few steps down the alley herself, then pauses suspiciously. “Then why you bring bear man here, Killian?” 

Sam grins reassuringly. “I brought him for you, uh, darling. I thought we could kill him together.” He’s almost reached her now, just a few more steps.

Dean plays his part up to the hilt. “What? How could you betray me like this?” He dramatically raises a hand to his forehead and ignores his brother’s look of annoyance. “You said you loved me, you heartless bastard!”

“Well, I lied,” Sam grits out through his teeth. “You’re inconsiderate, and you wouldn’t know a compliment if it smacked you in the face.”

That one hits a little too close to home. “Whoa, hey now—”

“Plus, you have the sense of humor of a nine-year-old.”

“Dude.”

There’s a peal of low laughter from behind Sam. “This is what it feels like to be betrayed in your heart,” she taunts at Dean. Then she turns back to Sam, closing the last of the distance between them. “I knew you never leave me, darling. I knew.”

“That’s right, Renna.” Sam slides his hands up her arms. “It’s us. Forever.” He leans down to kiss her and she surges up to meet him, slamming her eyes closed and sliding her fingers through his hair. He spins them around until her back is to Dean, gliding an arm down to her waist so it comes off natural. Sam tightens his grip around her body, then opens his eyes to catch Dean’s gaze.

That’s Dean’s signal to move. But he takes a few nanoseconds to appreciate the hot tingle that runs up his spine at the sight of his brother vigorously making out with someone else, while Sam’s eyes are one hundred percent locked on his. He’ll have to log that one away for later. He brings his machete arm up just as Sam sets his grip to unforgiving and pulls his head back out of the line of fire.

Renna seems to figure out something’s wrong now, and she tries to twist in his brother’s hold. “Killian, love. What are you doing?” She looks up at Sam with big, confused eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispers. “I’m not him.”

There’s a brief moment of understanding, and fear, before Dean brings his arm swinging. And she lets out a tiny, final gasp as her head comes clean off the rest of her body. Sam loosens his arms and the cadaver drops to the ground like a sack of potatoes, leaking dark blood along Sam’s front and the concrete of the alleyway. 

“Suck it, Morticia.” Dean stands triumphantly over the headless corpse at his feet. Vamps, zero. Dean Winchester, eight-fucking-billion-and-one. They should probably just start running when they hear him coming. It would save time.

“Who’s the other one?” Sam asks tiredly. He runs a hand through his soaking hair and slumps back against the brick wall in relief. “Not Morticia, but the other lady.” 

Dean frowns. “You mean from The Munsters?”

“Yeah,” Sam chuckles. “That one.”

“Uh…Lily.” 

Sam nods. “Lily. Right.”

Dean looks up at his brother, and Sam looks back at him, and all of a sudden they’re laughing like fools. Dean reaches up to tug Sam into his chest and he wraps his arms around his brother’s pointy shoulders. “You’re not gonna attack me again, right?”

Sam huffs into his shirt. “That was your fault, you moron.” He rests his head against Dean’s shoulder and squeezes back.

“Moron, huh? That one of those compliments I wouldn’t know about unless they smacked me in the face?”

Sam chuckles again. “Yup. You should work on that.”

Dean hums and thumps a hand against Sam’s back before pulling away. “So, what do you wanna do here? I figure we’ve got about five minutes or so.” He kicks Renna’s corpse a little closer to his brother’s feet. “Take a sip to slow him down, and then wait for Tim to catch him when he wakes up?” 

Sam looks confused. “Who’s Tim?”

“Me.” Dean sweeps a hand up and down. “Him. I’m Tim.”

Sam gives him a strange look, then glances down at the body between them. “I don’t know, man. You heard her. I think _Killian_ wasn’t ganking any humans.” 

Dean brings a hand up to scratch at his chin, still slightly weirded out by the beard. “Yeah, but vampires mate for life, Sam. What do you think this guy’s gonna do once he finds out that Tim’s beheaded his steady?”

Sam shrugs uneasily. “I’d rather not set some guy up for slaughter if he hasn’t done anything to warrant it.” He flicks his gaze to the other end of the alley. “Maybe I can just run. I’ll take him as far as I can go before we’re kicked, and you stay here, and we’ll let it play out on its own.” He raises his eyebrows. “Give ‘em both a fair shot.”

Dean sighs and leans back against the brick. “Yeah, yeah. Fine,” he grumbles. “That sounds _perfectly_ fair. Leave a guy bleeding in an alleyway so a vampire can get away.”

Sam smiles infuriatingly. “Glad you see it my way.”

Dean yanks at his brother’s jacket until they’re pressed forehead to forehead. “No monsters next time, Sammy. You hear me?” He grins. “You’re gonna give me a fucking coronary.” 

Sam raises a hand to the side of his face, and then he’s gone. Brief glimpse of a shadow skirting the alley edge, and then nothing. Dean lets out another breath. The dizziness has started to creep up on him, just like before. Although, this time Dean also has to contend with the throb of his busted-up arm. Now that he isn’t distracted, it’s aching with each beat of Tim’s heart. He slides down the wall until he’s sitting against it, settled on the cool, damp concrete below him. Dean glances at the bloody corpse chilling at his side. “Sorry about the mess, dude,” he says. And then he’s swallowed up by the encroaching darkness— 

Doyle groans as he slowly comes to. He shifts a little. The last thing he can remember is the forest. The forest, and then there was a noise… The fangs! Doyle’s eyes shoot open and he sways drunkenly as his brain races to catch up with his eyes. He’s in a dark, wet alley, and it must be _hours_ later. Filthy vamp must have got the drop on him. He raises his arm and grimaces at the wave of stinging pain emanating from his elbow. Doyle looks down to check and is taken aback by the sight of one of his old shirts, bloodstained and tied around his arm like a makeshift tourniquet. Fucking vampire must have taken a taste, but wanted him alive for later. Doyle growls darkly. Asshole better not be expecting seconds.

He struggles one-handed until he can get his fingers around the cell in his pocket, pausing only briefly to gawp at the female vamp’s corpse lying beside him. He presses the first number on his speed-dial and waits for the jackass to pick up. 

“Hey, Rudy. It’s Doyle.” He shifts uncomfortably against the cold wall at his back. “Shut up and listen, you drunk asshole. You were right, there were two of ‘em. And I think the bastard got the drop on me.” He winces at his partner’s livid tone. “Yeah, yeah. I owe you a fifth, shut up.” Doyle peers up at the rest of the alleyway. “I need you to come meet me in Heppner. And make sure you bring the first-aid kit.” He glances at his wrapped arm again. “The big one this time.”

 


	4. Goodbye, My Dear

Miguel Ramirez runs a hand over the back of his head and places his empty cardboard cup near the back wheel of the closest cruiser. The negotiation has been going on for about four hours now, and the girl clinging to the outer safety rail of the bridge still hasn’t said more than one word this entire time. Montgomery sidles up beside him and nudges another full cup of shitty coffee into his empty hand. Miguel grunts in appreciation and lets the boiling magma heat of the liquid seep through the thin paper and into his palms. Montgomery is terrible at bean juice and always has been, but after three years of riding together, the familiar burned taste and scalding temperature has become as much of a comfort as anything else.

She leans back against the patrol car and rests her eyes as Miguel burns his tongue on the too-bitter drink in his hands. “The Crisis Negotiation Team just showed up,” she says tiredly. Montgomery leaves her eyes closed, but tilts her head a little more in his direction. “The sergeant figures once they take over, he can call in a relief team for us lowly blues.” She cartoonishly wiggles her eyebrows at the self-deprecation.

Miguel smiles in acknowledgment of the half-hearted ribbing, then changes the subject. “How’s Brad doing?”

Montgomery sighs and absent-mindedly tugs her braid over her shoulder. “He’s got the girls tonight, but I was supposed to be off duty a couple hours ago.” She shrugs. “I’d really love to head home if you can spare me.” 

The feedback whine of a car megaphone blares out across the empty bridge and cuts through their muted conversation. “This is Patrol Sergeant Lorenzo Willis of the Detroit Police Department. We are not here to hurt you, Elizabeth, we are here to help you. I have someone with me who’d like to speak with you. Is that alright?” The figure on the bridge doesn’t move a muscle in response.

Miguel turns back to his partner and tries the coffee again. It’s cooled down a little, and it only burns the skin off his lips this time. “No one expects you to handle an entire 10-56A at the end of your shift. If Willis wants to bring in someone from the night squad to relieve you, I say go.” His partner raises an eyebrow at the unusual selflessness, and Miguel actually feels a little guilty when he breaks down and gives in to the inevitable teasing. “Of course, I do expect you to handle any and all of my paperwork from tonight, considering how generous I’m being.”

Montgomery laughs. “Ah, there it is.”

“Can’t have you getting soft now,” Miguel smirks, “just ‘cause of the twins and all.”

The megaphone whines again as the sergeant hands it off to the CNT. “Hello, Elizabeth.” The negotiator’s voice is a comforting balm after listening to Willis’s rough bark for the last few hours. “My name is Tracey Hawkins. Can I call you Elizabeth?” The girl nods. Again, the only response she’s given the entire night. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

Miguel stares up at the jumper on the bridge, her petite form washed out into a dim silhouette from the lights along the cables. “Y’know, Montgomery, you’d be surprised just how much—” 

Sam manages to catch himself this time without falling. Or smashing his face into any trees. Apparently he’s getting used to the jump. Or maybe it’s easier to leap into someone who’s standing still instead of running at full-tilt vampire speed through a forest. Sam spreads a hand over the smooth metal of the—the _car_ that’s apparently parked beside him and manages to get a hold of himself before he even spills the paper cup of coffee he’s got gripped in his other hand. 

“Just how much what?” 

“What?” Sam frowns at the woman beside him. She’s early thirties, looks like, and has a strong, no-nonsense air about her that’s accentuated by the long brown plait down the center of her back. And her uniform. Because she’s a cop. Sam is about to come up with some sort of apology for the officer before he glances down and realizes that he’s all suited up as well. He flicks his gaze back up to the woman giving him a concerned look, but she isn’t Dean. 

Sam sweeps his eyes over the rest of his surroundings. They’re on a bridge, completely closed off to anyone other than the smattering of cop cars and uniforms spread out over the road. The dark green tint of the surrounding metal pings of recognition, but it isn’t until Sam glances up at the illuminated neon-red of the overhead sign that he realizes why. _Ambassador Bridge._ They’re in Detroit. Fuck. 

“Ramirez, you okay?” The cop with the braided hair rests a hand on his arm.

Sam gives her an automatic nod. “Uh, yeah. I’m fine.” He looks out over the handful of cops but can’t seem to catch the eyes of anyone who could be his brother. They’d always arrived close by each time before, and Sam can’t see why anything would have changed now. It isn’t until he makes out the small shadowy figure above him, clinging to one of the girders, that his heart freezes solid in his chest.

The girl is somewhat solidly planted, tentatively edging the thin rail under her feet, but stable enough. But Sam can see the exact instant when Dean gets slammed in. She suddenly jerks, as if physically struck, and her fingers slip from the grasp they’ve got on the thin cables. She wheels her arms back for a nerve-wracking moment, almost managing to steady her center of gravity over the thin rail under her bare feet…

And then she falls.

The girl’s body plummets off the edge of the bride and toward the river below like a water-seeking missile. If water-seeking missiles were made entirely of lead. Dean seems to come aware a few seconds into the drop, at least from what Sam can see, and he manages to twist his loose flailing into something of an intentional dive. But Sam is already barreling to the edge of the roadway himself. Thank god the girl had fallen far enough away from the deck that Dean isn’t going to brain himself on any of the metallic struts on the way down.

“Ramirez!”

The shouts of the woman behind him only vaguely register in Sam’s mind, as does the brief scalding of his fingers as his coffee tumbles out of his grasp and the electronic wailing coming from one of the cars off to the side. He races to the edge of the scaffolding, heaves himself over the safety rail, and dives into the Detroit River below. Just a few moments behind his brother’s sleek splash.

Sam hits the freezing, _disgusting_ water smoother than he thought he would, and immediately dives under again to find Dean. The river is dark and murky, and Sam figures he’d have a difficult time navigating even if it wasn’t the middle of the night. He surfaces for another quick breath, then hears sputtering as someone splashes up a few yards in front of him. 

“Son of a bitch!” The feminine lilt of his brother’s words only throws Sam off for a second before he’s swimming over and yanking Dean’s head above water. Dean gets a death grip around Sam’s neck and starts coughing out freshwater against his chest. “What the fuck, man? Seriously, did I piss off the curse or something?” He sucks in a hoarse breath and sweeps his long, drenched hair out of the way. “Or does the universe just really like punching me in the face?”

Sam adjusts his grip until it’s more solid around his brother’s slender waist and valiantly refuses to bring up the fact that _he_ was the one shoved into a monster body on the last go. He shifts against Dean’s surprisingly inconsiderable weight and starts paddling them both back to shore, one-handed. “Are you okay?”

Dean lets out another weak cough and struggles as best he can to help Sam keep them afloat. Then an impish smile stretches over his trembling lips. “Ferris Bueller, you’re my hero.”

“Dude, seriously?” Sam throws his brother a look of exasperation, but secretly relishes the small chuckle Dean lets out against his side. He takes a moment to bask in the feeling of relief at his brother being unharmed, then pushes away any brain function not essential for ‘swimming’ and refocuses on getting them out of the freezing water. “Good to know the traumatic fall didn’t affect any of your stupid references.”

Dean laughs again, and it’s sounds less like he’s choking this time. “That’s how you’d know something was _really_ wrong. Right, Sammy?” 

“Don’t I know it,” Sam grumbles under his breath. 

Dean’s silent for a few, long strokes, then he twists in Sam’s grip until he’s comfortable. “Well, at least I won’t need to take a shower today.” His words are light, but the tense curve of his mouth negates his obviously false cheer. As does the occasional, full-body shiver he can’t quite seem to mask. 

Sam is sure Dean would shove away his help entirely if he knew Sam was feeling sorry for him, so he swallows his concern and grasps at the first thing he can think of to take Dean’s mind off the cold. “Please. Do you have any idea what’s in this water?” He grimaces as he recalls the last environmental article he’d come across. “Garbage and oil, and all _sorts_ of chemicals. Not to mention the sewage leaking in from—”

“Alright, I get it,” Dean interrupts. “Jesus. Just _stop_.” 

“Bright side is, it’s much better than it used to be.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yes. Thank you, Sam. That’s very bright.” And despite the annoyance coloring his brother’s words, Sam’s impromptu lesson on environmentalism seems to have focused all of Dean’s mental attention squarely on irritation. Sam fights off a smile and silently pats himself on the back.

They finally make it to the riverbank and Sam releases Dean so that his brother can reach the cops trying to hoist him out of the water. Sam is also grabbed by two uniformed officers, who each seize an arm and pull, and it isn’t until he’s on his back, heaving in the dirt, that Sam finally allows himself to relax. 

“What the fudge, Ramirez?” The braided cop is back, and Sam can blearily make out through his water-soaked gaze that her uniform reads _‘C. Montgomery’_. “What were you thinking, leaping off the flipping bridge like that?!”

Sam groans and rolls his head away from the yelling, trying to see if he can catch another glimpse of Dean, when another voice joins in.

“You better have a _damn_ good reason for that fucking jump, Ramirez! ‘Cause if I think you’ve lost your mind, I _will_ put you on desk duty until your grandkids have grandkids!” The harsh grate of the second voice almost makes Sam wish that Montgomery would come back and scream at him some more. “Do you hear me, son?” The face of a furious, African American man swims into his view, and Sam starts as the man begins shouting again. “Answer me, Officer! That’s an order!”

“Sorry, uh…sir.” Sam blinks weakly up at the two angry faces above him. “What?”

“Jesus Christ.” The man backs away and shouts up to the policeman still on the bridge. “Ortega! See if they can pull the bus down here! I’ve got one vic and one officer, possible shock—” He pulls away with an angry snort and mutters, “This is ridiculous.” He turns to the braided cop. “Montgomery, can you get your ass up there and handle this?” 

The woman nods with a curt, “Yes, sir,” and heads up the pathway to higher ground. 

“No need to be shouting like a damn caveman,” the man grumbles to himself. He presses Sam down from where he’d started to sit up and checks his pulse at his neck. “How you doing, Ramirez? Trying to give Louganis a run for his money?”

“Who?” Sam tries to sit up again and swivels his head back and forth. “Where’s— Uh…where’s the girl?” 

“We’re bringing the paramedics down for both of you nutjobs. Garza’s got her over closer to the pathway.” The man’s brows draw down sternly. “Y’know, at least the suicidal jumper had a decent excuse. Any particular reason you felt like leaping to your death tonight?”

“I had to save her.” Sam manages to get into a sitting position, but the man (the plaque under his badge says _‘Sgt. L. Willis’)_ still won’t let him stand.

“And what the fuck do you think protocol is for, Ramirez? We had the Coast Guard in position the whole time. The puddle pirates were raring to go the instant she hit the water.” Willis side-eyes him and adds, “Until _some_ idiotic jackass thought he’d try for two deaths instead of one.” 

“I’m sorry.” Sam twists until he can catch a glimpse of the ambulance winding down the road. “Please. I need to see her.” 

Willis makes an exasperated noise deep in his throat, but the gruff persona can’t entirely eclipse the reluctant affection and fatherly concern he obviously feels for the man Sam’s hitching a ride with. Er… _in_. The sergeant pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek, and throws up every indicator that he’s giving in out of pure logic. “Well, I figure you could at least use a shock blanket,” he admits. “And she’s probably already over by the same ambulance. Two birds and all that.” He reaches down to pull Sam to his feet and adds, “But once we wring out that waterlogged brain of yours, you are submitting to me,” he jams a finger under Sam’s nose, “in a _formal_ report, why you found it was necessary to fuck up a situation so royally. Do I make myself clear?” 

And all of a sudden, Sam is hit with a painful flash of nostalgia for his own dad, stern and disappointed. Glaring down at him in that shack they stayed at in Ellensburg when Sam was ten, pissed because he and Dean had wasted the last of the rock salt constructing an elaborate maze gauntlet for the snails out front. But then the corner of his mouth had reluctantly tugged up and he’d asked how many had managed to make it through. 

“Yes, sir,” Sam mumbles automatically.

Willis dips his head in a short, brusque nod, Sam’s visible deference apparently all that was needed to quell the other man’s short temper. The sergeant steers him over to where the paramedics have parked, one hand a demanding but comforting presence on his shoulder, and leaves him in the more suitable care of the swarming EMTs. A blanket is draped over Sam’s shoulders, which he immediately puts to use as a makeshift towel, and after a few preliminary tests, most of the technicians seem to come to the conclusion that he isn’t suffering from anything worse than being wet and worn out, so they leave him be.

“For the last fucking time, I slipped,” a woman’s disembodied voice spits his brother’s recognizable tone of frustration from around the nearest corner. Sam casually stealths his way around the edge of the ambulance to discover Dean, perched against the back of the van and wrapped up so thoroughly that Sam can barely make out his brother’s head over the bundle of red fabric. “Oops, my bad. That’s what I get for not wearing shoes,” he growls. 

In the fluorescent light of the ambulance bed (and in the absence of mind-numbing terror and freezing garbage-water), Sam can make out Dean’s new features much more clearly. He’s surprisingly tiny and fragile-looking, the petite body he’s currently rolled up in so at odds with his brother’s typical larger-than-life attitude that Sam’s brain bends a little at the edges trying to get it to make sense. Dean’s face is soft and heart-shaped, with big, innocent eyes and a rosebud mouth. His lips are a little blue at the moment, but plush in the way women’s are. Funnily enough, they’re not as full as his real ones. And ain’t that a kick. Sam would mention something about it, but Dean would probably break his fingers. A shock of pale, red hair rests lightly around his slight shoulders, fluffing up almost featherlike as it slowly dries. Sam takes a beat to worry about which part of the sharp attraction he’s currently experiencing is acceptable and how much of it, if any, he should be feeling guilty about. Because wanting to fuck his brother isn’t anything out of the ordinary, but wanting to fuck his brother while he looks like a beautiful woman might be weird. Maybe. Why are their lives so strange? 

The dopey, broad-faced guy standing across from Dean squints in confusion. “But, you were up there for almost five hours. You’re saying you didn’t notice the cops?” 

Dean makes an aggravated noise and looks like he wants to bash his head against the side of the vehicle. “I’ve got a shitty attention span. What can I say? Too much crap TV when I was a kid.”

“But, wait—” Dopey Cop takes a second to ponder Dean’s statement, then scrunches up his nose again. “How could you not have noticed the cops?”

Sam chooses that moment to intervene. “I think what she means is that she didn’t notice the cops _at first,”_ Sam explains, sweeping in to his brother’s defense. “And then afterwards, she just didn’t want to get in trouble. _Right?”_ He casts his gaze at Dean, silently urging him to follow his lead.

“Uh, yeah,” his brother grumpily concedes. “Right. What he said.” 

Sam glances down at Dopey’s badge. “You see—uh—Garza, she was probably just up there for fun. And then once we showed up, she was afraid of getting into trouble, so she didn’t want to come down.” He tilts his head toward Dean and coaxes, “Isn’t that right?” 

“Wow,” Dean replies flatly. “That’s exactly what happened. It’s like you’re a fucking mind reader or something.” Sam unclenches and ignores the derisive, “Thanks, Atticus,” Dean shoots in his direction.

He’s worried that Garza is going to take offense to his brother’s obvious mockery, but the cop doesn’t seem put off by Dean’s sarcastic monotone. He shrugs at Sam. “I don’t know, buddy. Sarge seemed pretty clear on taking Miss Pratt to the hospital for observation.”

“Hey, Barney Fife,” Dean barks sourly. “Do I seem suicidal to you?” 

Garza’s lips flatten into a thin line. “No. But you do seem surprisingly scary.” He pauses. “And mean.” 

Dean raises a self-impressed eyebrow and Sam cuts in before his brother can make it worse. “Look, she’s obviously stable enough now. I’ll escort her home and I’ll take full responsibility if anything happens. Okay?”

Garza shifts a little uncomfortably, but eventually acquiesces. “Sure thing, Ramirez. Guess that makes sense.” He sucks at his teeth, then chuckles. “What was with that swan dive, by the way? Thought you saw a decent pension at the bottom of the river?” He smiles pleasantly his own joke, and Sam throws on a strained one in response. “Okay, buddy.” Garza thumps him on the back. “I’ll see you at the station tomorrow. Try to stay away from any backyard pools.” He gives him another doltish grin, and Sam keeps up his cordial façade until the man ducks away entirely.

“Nice job handling Reno 911 there.” The strain of the night’s events are clearly evident in the tension around Dean’s eyes, but he looks relieved that they’ve managed to get through whatever that just was. He tugs at the blanket around Sam’s shoulders. “By the way, you look dumb in red,” he teases warmly. 

“Are you okay?” Sam asks wearily. “You’re not too cold, right?” Now that Sam’s closer, he can see that his brother isn’t wearing anything other than a filmy, white dress. It makes Dean look chaste and delicate. Which is quite a feat in and of itself. It’s also almost entirely see-through due to their earlier swim, and that weird, guilty arousal is flaring up again.

“—distracted by my womanly charms?” 

Sam jerks his head back up. “Huh, what?”

Dean snorts. “C’mon perv, let’s get out of here before you offend any of the bronze.” He places a dainty hand against the small of Sam’s back, and Sam leans into the touch before he realizes what it must look like and sheepishly pulls away. Dean coughs to hide his smile and falls into step beside him. “So, you think we’re gonna be able to sneak out of here without ‘Sarge’ throwing a fit?”

“Yeah,” Sam nods. “The sergeant likes me. Or this guy, I mean.” He checks the name on his chest. “M. Ramirez.” He self-consciously fiddles with the worn edge of his blanket and glances at Dean. His brother gives him a look that screams he’ll eviscerate Sam if he even thinks of giving it to him, so he just wraps it tighter around himself until the murder in Dean’s eyes has cooled. “When I woke up from the jump, I was standing next to a police car. So I figure that one’s probably mine and we can grab it."

Dean lets out a frustrated growl. “I am so fucking sick of this Sam Beckett shit. At least _he_ got a helpful hologram dude.”

“…He wasn’t slowly dying, either.”

Dean flashes him a unreadable look, but keeps his mouth shut. They pace in silence for the next few minutes, until Dean rolls his neck and says, “Where are we anyway? You got any idea?”

Sam only stiffens for an instant. He’s pretty sure Dean doesn’t even pick up on it. “Detroit,” he says. Intentionally even and calm, like it’s just any other word.

Sam refuses to glance at his brother behind him, but the silence only lasts for a second before Dean chimes in again, also too easygoing. “A cop in Detroit, huh? You know that makes you Peter Weller,” he says approvingly. There’s another pause as Dean’s light footsteps come to a halt. “Wait, shit. That makes me Nancy Allen.” 

Sam can’t hide the surprised laugh that escapes his throat. His brother’s stupid references have actually done a number on clearing the tension. “Nah,” he teases. “Nancy Allen was a cop too. You’re more like Robocop’s wife.”

“Fuck, man. She’s barely in the movie,” Dean whines.

They make it up to the bridge and find the car Sam woke up next to. Dean unconsciously goes for the driver’s side door, and Sam has to manually steer his brother around to the other end of the car. Thankfully, it’s unlocked and the keys are tucked up into the sunshade.

“Feels friggin’ weird,” his brother whines. “Like a crime against nature or something.”

“You are not driving the cop car because you are not the cop,” Sam explains distractedly as he tampers with the radio. “Also, you’re not wearing shoes.”

“You don’t need shoes to drive,” Dean mumbles under his breath.

“Dispatch.” The nasally voice drones out of the car’s speakers.

“Uh, yeah. Hi.” Sam steadfastly ignores his brother’s derisive snort. “This is Officer Ramirez. I need the address of a Miss Pratt…” Dean corrects him quietly. “A Miss Elizabeth Pratt. Because I’m, uh, escorting her home.” 

“Copy that, Officer. That’s a 10-28 for Car 6?”

Sam mentally scrolls through all the scanner codes he knows, but comes up blank. He glances at Dean. Dean shrugs. Sam shrugs in return. “Uh…yes?”

“Received.” The dispatcher rattles off the girl’s address while Dean plugs the info into the dashboard GPS.

“Uh…thanks,” Sam says awkwardly. “That’s a 10-4.” The line goes dead and Sam reaches up to switch off the radio entirely. 

“Sammy, you know I get all wet when you talk shop like that,” Dean taunts. His brother’s regular, casual sprawl should come off as ridiculous with his new physique, but it doesn’t help that the soaked, white fabric of Elizabeth’s dress is still clinging pornographically to the outline of his body. He’s shoved the shock blanket into the footwell in favor of the car’s heating vents, but the air is apparently still a touch too chilled because Sam can clearly make out the stiff peaks of Dean’s nipples right through the sheer cloth. Because who needs a bra when you’re planning on jumping off a bridge?

Sam wrenches the parking brake down and squeals into reverse. He sets his jaw and focuses on driving, but it’s probably doing nothing to hide the heated blush that Sam’s sure is flaring up around his face right now. “Quit screwing around, Dean.” 

Dean chuckles darkly and slowly spreads his legs, the wet material teasingly riding up one smooth thigh. “Really?” he asks lasciviously. “This doing it for you, cowboy?” 

“Dean, _stop_.” Sam is positive his entire face is bright red 

His brother laughs outright, then leans in and slides a hand up the length of Sam’s thigh. “Dude, you look exactly like you did that time Louise Bradley offered to give you a handy in the back of her dad’s Gas-n’-Sip. You remember that?”

Sam rolls his eyes, and mentally wills his blood to obey him and leave his face. “Yes, Dean. I remember that.” Dean’s hand inches higher on his thigh and he twitches involuntarily. “Dude, quit it.” Sam bats at his brother’s arm until Dean finally leaves him alone, settling in smug and amused against his side of the car. Sam clears his throat awkwardly and immediately regrets willing his blood downwards. He discreetly adjusts himself, then glances at his brother. “Y’know, you seem surprisingly okay with this whole thing. It’s not what I expected.”

Dean raises an arched eyebrow. “Sam, I’m in the body of a teenage girl. It’s like hunter Santa finally answered all of my letters at once.”

Sam smiles despite himself. “Hunter Santa, huh? That different than regular Santa?” 

“Yup.” Dean adjusts the car vents until the warm air is blowing directly over him, then relaxes back into his seat with a contented sigh. “If you’re bad, he leaves a gremlin in your stocking.” He waves his delicate fingers spookily. “And none of your electronics will ever work againnn…” The smoky cadence of his voice perfectly accents the ghostly wail he’s putting on. And Sam can’t help but be reminded of the woman in white. Dean is even dressed appropriately. Sam’s brother, painfully seductive and leading him directly to his own doom. Does it count as unfaithfulness if he cheats on Dean…with Dean? 

“—attention at all? Sam?” 

“Sorry. What?”

Dean fixes him with a knowing look. “Damn, you’ve really got it bad for this Elizabeth chick, huh?”

Sam stares out the windshield and refuses to answer the question. On the grounds that saying something stupid like, “I’ve got it bad for _you_ , idiot,” would garner him nothing but cruel mockery for the next month or so.

“So, like I was saying before you zoned out to pussy paradise.” Dean smirks, but Sam keeps his hands on the wheel and intentionally does _not_ rise to the bait. “What’s our play here?” Dean throws an elbow up against the side door and rests his head in his hand. “I assume we’re dealing with a dirty cop. And I doubt I’m gonna be much help if we’ve gotta investigate the station, but you could totally stroll right in. So I figure—” 

“No.” Sam’s statement is quiet, but it cuts through Dean’s monologuing as effectively as if he’d shouted. 

Dean stares at him. “No?”

“That’s what I said,” Sam snits. “We’ve been doing this your way, and we’re not getting anything done.” Dean opens his mouth to interject, but Sam bulldozes right over him. “No. We’re no closer to figuring this thing out than we were at the beginning. Because you’re so focused on doing exactly what the fucking _curse_ wants us to do.”

“Oh, don’t even start that bullshit with me.” Dean rubs a hand over his eyes. “We ganked a fucking _vampire_ because she tried to rip your stupid head off. And because you could barely function without Twilight-pining all over the place.” Sam scoffs, but Dean jabs a finger at him. “Shut up, it’s true. And I’m not gonna leave innocent people to the wolves just because we were dumb enough to get caught up in all this. I’m a hunter, okay?” His gaze turns hard, and unforgiving. “We’re hunters. We _hunt_.” 

Sam takes a slow, deliberate breath and selects his words carefully. “Look, I know you’ve been a little gung-ho lately—”

“Fuck you, Sam.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sam grits out. “Was my word choice not badass enough for you, Dean?”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean says bitterly. “You know what, Sam? Yeah, I have been pretty _focused_ lately. You wanna know why? I’ll give you three fucking guesses.” 

“Dean—” 

“Why that’s right, Sam,” Dean sneers. He puts on his most insulting game show host voice. And for once he sounds like Vanna White instead of Bob Barker. “The answer _was_ Purgatory. Good for you.”

Sam clenches his jaw and tightens his fingers on the wheel. “I don’t wanna have this fight again.”

“Then shut your fucking trap.” 

Sam glares daggers at the Michigan license plate of the Volvo in front of them and silently counts to ten. “Dean—”

“Your trap is still open,” his brother sullenly interrupts.

“—if we _die_ because…” He breaks off. Saying, _“because you refuse to pull your head out of your ass,”_ probably won’t do much to diffuse the tension here. “…because we miss the forest for the trees, then we lose.” Sam forces a smile and puts on his best Bill Paxton voice. “Game over, man. Game over.” He eyes his brother. Dean seems relatively amused by Sam’s olive branch of a reference (meaning he hasn’t broken Sam’s nose yet), so he continues. “We won’t be able to shut the gates of Hell. And then Crowley will win.” 

“Over my dead body,” Dean quietly snarls. 

“Exactly.” 

Dean takes a long breath and lets it out in a defeated sigh. “Okay.” He runs a hand over his mouth. “Okay. How do you want to handle it?”

They’re stopped at a red light, the reflected glare shining through the windshield and illuminating Dean’s face with a ruddy glow. Sam remains still for a moment, just taking in the view. And then he leans over to gently capture his brother’s lips with his own. Dean immediately, automatically tilts his head and widens his jaw to deepen the angle of their kiss. The movements are as familiar as everything else Dean-related in Sam’s life (which is probably close to ninety-eight percent of it), but the face against his is smooth and underneath the faint cloying odor left over from their dip in the river, Elizabeth’s hair smells like jasmine. It’s exotic. And girlish. And Sam’s stomach dips, torn between enjoying the feminine body pressed against his and desperately missing the familiar masculine scent and feel of Dean’s stronger planes. 

“What happened to all that shit you said earlier?” Dean’s voice is quiet, husky in the space between them. “All that ‘not our real bodies’ crap.”

Sam presses another soft kiss to Dean’s mouth. “I don’t have any fangs,” he whispers against his brother’s lips, “It’s nice.” Then he pulls away and pushes down on the gas, driving them smoothly through the now-green intersection. “I figured one kiss wouldn’t matter too much. But you’re right,” he nods, “we shouldn’t.”

“No, wait. I didn’t mean it,” Dean teases. He dips back into Sam’s space and nips affectionately at the underside of his jaw. “I take it all back. Let’s fuck.” Sam turns to chastise his brother, but Dean is already leaning back into his own seat, smiling at the easy mark. After a few seconds, his expression turns sober. “Look, Sammy…”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam responds softly. “Me too.”

Dean taps his fingernails against the side door. “Whaddya think would happen anyway? If we died?” He tilts his head to consider Sam. “You think we’d get stuck in whatever meatsuits we were using? Permanent-like?”

Sam sighs as he turns onto the street the dispatcher had indicated. “I doubt it. If our bodies die, I’m pretty sure our souls die too.” He shrugs. “Best guess, anyway.” 

“So, what is the plan then?” Dean asks. “We throw our blinders on and just work at this curse thing?” 

Sam exhales sharply through his nose. “Yes.” He pulls up to the tiny apartment building and cuts the engine. “I don’t want to investigate. I don’t want to work this case. I don’t want to even _look_ for the bad guy. ‘Cause if we see him, we’re gonna have to go after him.” His brother makes a ‘not necessarily’ noise and Sam rolls his eyes. “Of course we will, Dean. So, let’s try not to tempt fate, and maybe we can make some actual headway with this fucking Damocles shit.” 

His brother gives him a blank stare. “I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean,” he says flatly. “Is that a real word? Did you make up that word?”

“What? No, it’s a myth,” Sam laughs. “The sword hanging over our heads? Kinda literally?” Dean just raises an eyebrow, so he smiles and shakes his head. “Forget it. Let’s just head inside and try to figure out this Masamune thing, okay?”

The door to the lobby is open, so they breeze through the complex and up to Elizabeth’s apartment. Number 207. Sam is two seconds away from making some crack about terrible security in a shitty neighborhood, but out of all the doors they’ve waltzed right through, it turns out the only one that matters is very much locked. Sam thinks he can even make out the screws from a door bar on the other side.

“Dude,” Dean prompts. “Open it.” 

“I didn’t get to bring my kit with me when I was magically kicked into another guy’s body, Dean.” Sam throws his brother a look. “And I’m pretty sure a cop’s not gonna have a torsion wrench on him.” 

Dean condescendingly yanks at the dress he’s wearing. “Well, it’s not like she’s got pockets in this thing, either. Trust me, if there was anywhere else for her to store her keys, I’m pretty sure I’d know.” He tilts his head to clarify the implication. “Because I’d be physically feeling them.” Then there’s another pause before Dean adds, “I’m talking, like, cavity search here.” 

Sam grimaces. “Yes, Dean. Thank you. I got it the first time.” He takes a moment to examine the door. “You want me to kick it in?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, ’cause _that_ won’t draw any unwanted attention.”

“Do you think she lives with her parents?” Sam asks.

“God. I hope not.” 

Apparently they’ve made enough noise to be noticed because the front light switches on and, after several clicks, a sleep-rumpled man swings the door open. “Can I help you with something?” he snaps irritably, then does a double take before gasping, “Lizzie?”

Dean purses his lips and glances to Sam, then back to the guy at the door. “Uh, yeah. ‘Sup?”

“Where have you been, pussycat?” The man starts forward, then seems to finally notice Sam standing there. “I’m sorry. Is there a problem, Officer?” 

“Uh, no,” Sam replies, a little uncertain of how Dean wants them to play this. “I was just escorting Miss Pratt home after the…” He trails off once he realizes the full extent of their circumstances. “…the situation.” 

Something dark locks up deep within the man’s eyes. “Again?” he whispers brokenly.

Dean’s expression instantly turns somber at the guy’s hangdog look. “Look, I’m sorry,” he consoles. “She— _I_ probably don’t mean it, not really.” Sam attempts to give his brother a warning look, but Dean ignores him. “It’s not your fault, man. Sometimes certain people just have shit to deal with, y’know?”

The man stares into Dean’s eyes, somewhere between reassured and really fucking confused. Then he tenderly grasps Dean’s hands in his own. “Okay, pussycat,” he says soothingly. “I love you. You know that, right?” Dean plasters on an uncomfortable smile in place of a response, and the man extends a hand out to Sam. “I’m Shaun. Shaun Fisher.” He sweeps his other arm up over Dean’s shoulders and his brother’s eyes go wide. “Thank you so much for all you’ve done for Lizzie, Officer. You have a good night now.” 

“Uh, nope,” Dean blurts out. He wheels out from under Shaun’s arm. “Sorry, uh, _muffin_. But the very kind officer came by to help me grab some of my crap and then we’re going to another location. Like a safehouse. For observation. Very important stuff. Legally required and all that.” 

Sam hides a smug smile behind a very officious-sounding cough. “Absolutely. I was just escorting Miss Pratt home to get her things. Before we head to the official second location.” 

“Oh. Uh, okay.” Shaun flicks his gaze between the two of them. “For how long?”

Sam glances to his brother and Dean takes over. “Can’t say for sure. A couple days maybe.”

Shaun bites at his bottom lip. “Okay then,” he says dejectedly, then trails a thumb down Dean’s arm. “If it’ll help.”

And Shaun looks so crestfallen that Sam can’t help but feel bad for the guy. Even if he _is_ all over his brother. Though, considering Dean is currently Shaun’s girlfriend, Sam supposes he can forgive all the fondling and the pet names. 

“Alright then.” Dean claps his hands together. “Well, the nice policeman here is gonna help me pack up, and then we’re gonna hit it. So if we all could head inside…?” Shaun backs up from the doorway and holds out a welcoming arm, letting Dean and then Sam pass by him and into the apartment. They shuffle into the small bedroom down the hall and leave Shaun in the living room, alone and awkward in his desire to stay out of the way of official police business. Dean pushes Sam in first, then makes an unnecessarily exaggerated move to shut the door behind them. Firmly.

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Worried about your virtue?”

“I’m not letting _Shaun_ get any ideas about joining us in here.” He twists his face up unpleasantly. “Or any other ideas for that matter.”

Sam huffs out a laugh as he picks up a small ceramic elephant from the nightstand. “If you wanted me to protect your maidenhood, you could have just asked.” 

“Har-dee-fucking-har, Sam.” Dean heads directly over to the framed mirror in the corner of the room to check himself out. And he practically foams at the mouth once he finally catches sight of himself. “Redhead. _Hello_.”

“Dude, could you be any more vain?”

Dean turns to catch himself from all angles. “I just wanted to see what you were getting so worked up about in the car.”

“I wasn’t getting worked up,” Sam mumbles under his breath. 

But his brother proceeds to ignore him in favor of staring at his ass in the mirror. “No interest in checking out the new bod?”

Sam snorts and rifles through a few pages of bad, handwritten poetry. “No. Not really.”

Dean pauses and gives him a curious look. “Really? ‘Cause the giant, disfiguring hair lip is pretty noticeable.” He shrugs. “I figured you might want to see why everyone’s been so put off.” 

“Ha ha, Dean. You’re hilarious.”

His brother rests a hip on the edge of a dresser and crosses his arms. “Seriously, though. Why not?”

Sam lifts a shoulder and drops onto the pink bed in the center of the room. “I don’t know. It’s not my body, so I don’t really care. I didn’t look the last time either.” 

“Huh. Really?” Dean looks him over for a long moment, contemplative. “You were blond,” he says eventually.

“Oh. Okay.” There’s another long pause as Dean stares at him expectantly. Sam sighs under his brother’s scrutiny and reluctantly decides to give in. It’s better to admit everything now than to deal with Dean’s needling all night long. “I just don’t love it when I’m not _me_ , okay? It’s not my favorite thing in the world.”

“Sammy,” Dean says softly. And Sam hates the pity shading his brother’s tone. Dean steps over to where he’s seated and gently deposits himself in Sam’s lap. 

“Dude—”

“You wanna know what you look like?” Sam grumbles an inarticulate response that his brother must take for a yes, because he continues on. “Okay, so _M. Ramirez._ He’s about your age, give or take a year or so.” Dean skates his fingers down the side of his face. “He’s tan. Good-looking guy, I guess.” He smiles teasingly. Then he runs a hand over the top of Sam’s head. “Buzzcut.”

“Yeah, my head’s cold.”

Dean snorts in amusement. “That’s because he’s got a man’s haircut, Sammy. Not that weird Fabio thing you’ve got going on.”

“Shut up.” Sam wraps his arms around his brother’s hips and rests his face against Dean’s neck. It’s disconcertingly slender. So different than the solid column of comfort that Sam loves to bury his face in whenever he needs to escape the world. “You like my hair,” he insists childishly. And this whole thing is stupid, because Dean isn’t doing anything more than spouting inanities. His mouth is running but he’s saying nothing, and yet… He’s grounding Sam entirely, with just his presence. 

Dean drops a kiss to his forehead and Sam can feel the smile against his skin. “Yeah, I do.” He remains there, just holding Sam for a few moments, while Sam tries not to enjoy the soft press of breasts against his chest. Then Dean pulls back slightly. “I’m telling you though, just a couple of inches, man—” 

Sam rolls his eyes and playfully shoves his brother off his lap. “Alright, moment’s over.” 

Dean laughs and heads over to the dresser. Despite the fact that the front of Sam’s uniform is still slightly damp (even more so where Dean had just pressed up against him) he feels better. Lighter. And dumb as it sounds, Sam is almost annoyed that his brother can basically trick him into a good mood without even trying.

Dean unceremoniously yanks the entire dress over his head, and except for a tantalizing flash of shapely, alabaster skin, Sam wrenches his head away before he can see anything more—the unbidden view of a non-consenting stranger’s body weighing more heavily on him than it does his brother. And for good reason. Sam’s lips twitch cynically, and he shoves all the slithering, dark thoughts back into the cramped, dingy corner of his mind where they belong. He needs to concentrate on anything that isn’t Dean changing on the other side of the room, so Sam crouches down and searches under Elizabeth’s bed for something useful. He resolutely ignores Dean’s occasional low whistles of appreciation at his own reflection, and emerges victorious, with a weekender bag and a pair of functional sneakers. Thankfully, his brother is almost entirely dressed now. Layers upon layers. Jeans and a gray t-shirt and a blue button-up and a canvas jacket, and Dean looks so much more like himself that Sam can’t help but smile.

His brother side-eyes him, suspicious of the sudden cheerfulness. “What?” 

Sam struggles to get the bottom half of his face under control, and fails miserably. “You look like a lesbian heading out on a backpacking trip.” 

“Shut up.” Dean flips him off, then turns to grab a couple handfuls of random clothing from the open drawers and shoves them all into the bag Sam found. Dean finishes his half-assed packing and turns his attention to tugging on the sneakers, while Sam ruffles through Dean’s selections, adding and subtracting items to make sure his brother actually has the shit he’s gonna need. Because wildest dreams or not, Dean’s going to find extra pants and underwear a hell of a lot more useful than the bikini and the garter belt he’d managed to stuff in there. He pulls out yet another complicated, lacy, string thingamajig and silently raises an eyebrow. 

Dean grins unabashedly. “You don’t know, there might be downtime.”

“For some weird voyeurism-by-proxy?” he asks dryly.

“Sam, you make it sound so _dirty_.” His brother rolls the word in his mouth, provocative and wicked. And Sam breaks down and shoves the thing back into the bag before this stupid body gives him away again. Dean does one final pass of the room, stopping to pick up a cartoon kitty-cat wallet and shuffle through the cards inside. “Elizabeth June Pratt,” he does some quick mental math. “Age nineteen.” Dean waggles his eyebrows, beaming. “Check it out, Sammy. I’m _legal_.”

Sam fixes him with an icy glare. “Can we please just go now?” 

“Aw, baby.” Dean saunters up in front of him and slips his fingers through Sam’s belt. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

Sam’s eye twitches and he decides to fight fire with fire. Better fire. Hotter fire. “Your boyfriend is outside,” he says flatly.

And yup, that does it. Dean makes an unconscious, ugly noise at the reminder, and spins to face the door. “We should go now. Time’s a-wasting." 

And Sam wins so rarely, that he can’t help the smug grin.

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“I’m just saying, fair’s fair.”

Sam clicks on his blinker and glances over his left shoulder. “You have hot wired four hundred jillion cars in your life. Are you seriously trying to get me to believe that you’ve never driven a Charger before?” 

“Not a cop one,” his brother nitpicks. 

“It’s the same damn car, Dean.” 

Dean restlessly shifts around. And then shifts again, evidently bored by the passenger seat. He’s quickly reaching that very specific level of annoyance that reminds Sam why he prefers it when his brother takes the wheel. “There’s doohickeys and shit.” He flaps a hand in the vague direction of the dashboard. 

“Please don’t touch any of the doohickeys.” Sam can vividly imagine the clusterfuck that would ensue if Dean managed to get his hands on control of the siren. “You hated my Charger anyway, you called it a ‘plastic piece of crap’. Because you’re touched in the head and you refuse to drive anything made after ’79.”

“It’s an entirely different beast,” Dean continues, completely undeterred by Sam’s interruption. Or maybe he’s just ignoring him. “And the distinctions matter. Like with fine wine.”

“Wow,” Sam quips. “You truly are the sommelier of busted-up, old junkers.”

Dean stares blankly at him for a moment, then says, “You really have to stop making up words, man. I’m just embarrassed _for_ you at this point.” 

“The answer’s ‘no’, Dean.” He gives his brother a look. “You don’t think it would be _slightly_ suspicious if people saw a teenage girl driving a cruiser with the cop riding shotgun?” 

His brother crosses his arms and sinks back into his seat. And Sam fights off the urge to call it adorable. “They’d probably just think you were my sugar daddy or something. And trying way too hard to get into my pants.” 

Sam snorts. “Firstly, your pants are really not that hard to get into—”

“I’m not even gonna take offense to that.”

“And secondly, I don’t think cops even make enough to be sugar daddies,” he points out.

“Hey, you don’t know that.” Dean’s got that gleam in his eye now. The one that always shows up right before he makes them watch The Untouchables every day for a week. “Maybe M. Ramirez is the paper handler for a mob front. Or maybe the station’s resident dirty cop is paying him a handsome assload to keep his mouth shut.” 

Sam smiles and shakes his head. “You’re really stuck on this police corruption thing, huh?”

“Dude, it’s like I told you. I am the master of this cop procedural crap. And this is some straight up Caruso shit, right here.”

Sam hums in response, refusing to engage. They’re working on the curse because Dean promised, and Sam’s not going to let any of his brother’s natural bloodhound instincts drag them away from the important issue here.

Dean glances over and studies the side of Sam’s face. “So you don’t think it’s weird that we ended up right in the middle of a police investigation?” 

“It wasn’t an investigation. It was a suicide attempt.” 

Dean pretends he didn’t hear the correction and keeps on trucking. “And you don’t think it was weird that Sylvia Plath was up on that bridge with no shoes or wallet?” 

Sam focuses all his attention on driving and deflecting his brother’s too-pointed queries. He tries to sound as naive as possible. “Are shoes required for suicide attempts?”

“You don’t think there’s anything weird about any of that?” Dean asks. “Even though every single time we get kicked somewhere new, the bad guy’s always been smack dab in the middle of it.”

Deflect. Deflect. _Deflect_. “I think it’s weird that ‘pussycat’ and her boyfriend have two separate bedrooms.”

His brother snorts and tilts his head in agreement, successfully derailed. And Sam punches an invisible fist up in victory. Dean chuckles. “Fair enough. _I_ think it’s weird that the kid wasn’t strapped to her smartphone,” he snarks. “What’s a girl to do without unlimited texting and Candy Crush?” 

And Sam’s brain stutters a little. Because that is kind of suspicious. Why _didn’t_ they find her phone when they swept the room? No. _No_. They don’t have time for this. They’re working the case they’ve already got, or else they’re going to fucking die. Sam turns to regard his brother. “You should be more worried about what _I’m_ going to do if I don’t get a shower within the next ten minutes.”

Dean’s lips tug up at the corner. “I dunno, Sammy. All that radioactive water? Maybe we’ll get superpowers.”

Sam’s hands tighten infinitesimally around the steering wheel. They’re still there. They’re always there. _“You didn’t need the feather to fly, Dumbo.”_ Locked up in a tiny, little, _evil_ box and shoved into the back of his head. Wrapped up with padlocks and chains and security systems and scorpions and snakes, and hidden away so fucking deep that Sam is never tempted to even look. He pushes away at the tainted, impure, poisonous glow. Crams it away with all of the other evil things hiding in his head. The powers, the demon blood, the anger…the Cage. 

No. Superpowers are not all they’re cracked up to be. But if Dean’s noticed the sudden shift in mood, he doesn’t say anything.

Sam glances to his brother, but he’s still busy daydreaming about becoming Aquaman or something. Sam clears his throat and says, “So, how do we know that trying this guy’s place is gonna go any better than our first attempt?” 

Dean raises a teasing eyebrow. “You think M. Ramirez also has a boyfriend named Shaun?” 

“What if he’s married, Dean? Bringing a pretty girl over doesn’t seem like a smart thing to do.”

His brother puts a hand to his chest in mock flattery until Sam rolls his eyes. Then Dean lazily gestures to his fingers. “He’s not wearing a ring, Sam. So either he’s not married, or he’s a shitty husband. Bringing a girl home could only be doing Mrs. Ramirez a favor.” 

Sam pulls into the driveway of the tiny, ramshackle house the GPS had directed them to, and leaves the engine idling as he tries to come to a decision. Until Dean lets out an aggrieved sigh and leans over to twist off the ignition for him. Sam makes an indignant noise and fumbles for the keys now solidly in his brother’s grasp. “Dude, c’mon. Maybe we should just go to a motel instead.”

“Sam. Unwad your panties.” Dean tosses the keys at his chest. “There is literally nothing to freak out about.” He yanks himself out of the car, then slams the door behind him and gestures up at the house. “No lights on, man. You’re the one who wanted to work on this. So turn your mutated, overdeveloped brain off for one second and stop worrying about every fucking little thing.”

Sam sullenly closes his door and locks the car, then shadows Dean up the cracked, cement walkway and to the basic, cookie-cutter front door. After a few minutes of fiddling with the keys in his uniform pocket, he manages to find the correct one, and they trudge inside.

The interior of the house is just as unimpressive as the exterior hinted it would be. It’s cold and dark. The narrow foyer (if Sam could even call it that) presses in on them, seeming somewhat more oppressive due to the lack of adornment on either wall. Sam manages to find and flick on the light switch, but the weak illumination from the single bulb doesn’t do much more than spread the darkness around. Watery and ominous.

“Miguel.”

“What?” Sam turns to find his brother flipping through the stack of mail left on the crooked hallway table.

Dean tosses the pile back onto the chipboard surface. “ _M._ Ramirez. It’s ‘Miguel’.” He sniffs. “In case you were wondering.”

“Ah. Right.” Sam remains motionless in the entryway. “Thanks.”

Dean rolls his eyes at Sam’s hesitance and nudges him further into the house. “Alright, Sasquatch. C’mon.” He pushes Sam down into a beat-up wooden chair (Sam thinks it’s probably supposed to be part of a haphazard dining room set) and traipses through the empty doorway to the kitchen. And Sam most certainly does _not_ fixate on his brother’s hips as he walks away. No, sir. What he _does_ do is manage to find a laptop that’s seen better days and lug it onto the table in front of him. He’s trying to get the dinosaur to boot up when he hears Dean’s triumphant cry from the adjoining room. “Man after my own heart!” There’s a solid thump, like the closing of a fridge door, and Dean returns with a couple slices of cold pizza in his hands. And one in his mouth. “Your body’s got good taste in grub,” he garbles around a mouthful of pepperoni.

Sam gives his brother a tight smile in response and accepts the slices Dean shoves at him. Then deposits them on the corner of a worn placemat. He smacks the back of the laptop a couple times until the monitor fizzes to life. “So,” he says. “My first thought was Missouri.”

Dean raises an eyebrow and pulls his index finger out of his mouth with an obscene sucking sound. “That was my idea. Remember?" 

“No, right. But I meant,” Sam pauses to tap the laptop again, “I thought we could call her.”

“’Kay…” Dean pauses and waits for the bad news. Because his brother is too damn perceptive for his own good.

Sam clears his throat. “And I think I might still have her number saved in my cell…” 

Dean sighs and picks up the thread of the conversation. “But your cell is back on you.” His fingers twitch. “ _Real_ you.”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Pretty much.” M. Ramirez—er _Miguel’s_ computer seems to be working now, so Sam clicks on the browser icon and pulls up the search engine. “We could try driving to Lawrence, like you said, but I think you’re right. The curse will probably throw us into something else if we get too far.” 

Dean thumps his sneakers up onto the cheap, plastic table and yoinks one of Sam’s pizza slices. “So. That leaves us with…research?” Sam tosses him an apologetic nod and his brother groans. “Great. My favorite.” Dean gives him a once-over, then gently kicks at Sam’s closest wrist. “Eat your damn pizza.” 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“Anything yet?” The pre-dawn light leaks in through the room’s high, single window and catches Dean from behind. Throwing his face into shadow and highlighting his outline in a reddish-gold.

Sam rubs at his aching eyes and breaks off in a yawn. “Not unless you think taking a saltwater bath will work.”

Dean scoffs good-naturedly and drops a pair of men’s sweatpants into Sam’s lap. “Whodathunk? It’s been that easy all along.” He leans down to drape himself across Sam’s shoulders. “Whaddya think, Sammy?” he purrs. “Want me to scrub your back?”

“Dude.” Sam bats him away. “Not helping.” He ignores his brother’s feigned hurt noises and picks at the warm fabric in his lap. “And where’d you get these?”

“Bedroom closet,” Dean deadpans. “Doing my best to stop you from getting fucking pneumonia.”

Sam flushes as he realizes he’s still wearing Miguel’s damp uniform. "Uh. Thanks, man.” He stands, making to head upstairs to change as his brother lets out an incredulous snorting sound. “What?”

“Dude. Really?” Dean waves a hand in Sam’s direction. “Because I’ve never seen you change before?”

Sam ducks his head and Miguel’s stupid face goes red again. “No, it’s just— I don’t know.” 

“And what’s with the blushing virgin act all of a sudden?” Dean rests a shoulder on the nearest pitifully bare wall. “Seriously. How is it that I’m the one missing a dick here, and you’re _still_ the girl?”

Sam smirks and latches onto the opportunity to avoid the question. “How you handling that by the way?” 

“It’s losing its luster,” Dean replies dryly. “The kinky mirror thing was fun for about forty minutes, but now I think I’m getting separation anxiety.”

“Oh, dude. Come on.” Sam clamps his hands over his ears and curses his face for disobeying him. “Is that what you’ve been doing all night? I didn’t wanna know that.”

Dean chuckles smugly and drawls, “Yeah, you did.” He rubs a small circle into Sam’s hip, then pulls back to catch his eyes. “Seriously though. What’s your deal?”

Sam lets out all of the breath he’s been holding and sinks into his brother’s hands. “I don’t know, it’s stupid. It’s just…” He sighs again and stares anywhere except for Dean’s face. “It was easier when you were a guy.”

Dean speaks insultingly slowly, like he always does when he thinks Sam’s being particularly dense. “I _am_ a guy, Sam.”

“No, I know.” Sam shifts awkwardly. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just—” He continues to clumsily avoid his brother’s gaze. “I just… I kinda feel like I’m corrupting some innocent teenager. Or something,” he mumbles.

What Sam doesn’t expect is the loud, derisive bark of laughter. Dean’s hands tighten on his hips as his brother laughs in his face. “Dude. In what universe are _you_ corrupting _me?”_

“Shut up, Dean. You know what I mean.” 

Dean exhales his mocking grin away and slides his hands up to rub at Sam’s back. “Sorry for offending your delicate sensibilities, Sammy.” His expression drifts a hint toward seriousness. “You want me to stop?”

Sam closes his eyes and rests his face against his brother’s head. “Honestly? No. But it would make my life easier.”

Dean smiles, then smacks him on the ass and walks past him. “Okay, you weirdo. Go upstairs and change before anyone glimpses your vestal flesh.” He settles into the chair Sam had vacated. “You should probably grab some z’s too. I’ll take over research duty.”

Sam nods. But he must have made some unintentional sound, because his brother turns to fix him with a dubious look. Sam stares back, face schooled into perfect innocence. “What?”

“Y’know, contrary to popular belief, I am not a complete idiot.” 

“Oh, come on. I didn’t say that,” Sam protests. Dean doesn’t give an inch. “I just mean maybe I should stay awake too. In case you need help.” 

“Fuck off, Sam. Go to bed,” Dean calls out flippantly. Then he squints out at the daylight, which is rapidly approaching morning levels. “Are the police allowed to call in sick?” 

Sam makes a noncommittal noise and trudges up the narrow staircase. “Dunno. Not a real cop, Dean. I just play one on TV.”

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sam stretches until his back cracks and zips up the hoodie he’d found hanging in Miguel’s closet. According to the bedside clock, he’d been asleep for almost six hours, but the offensive afternoon sunlight beating down on him taunts him like he’d barely slept at all. He plods down the stairs to find Dean still at work, and surrounded by a few more gnawed pizza crusts than when he’d left him.

His brother twists to take him in, and smirks a little at his outfit. “How’d you sleep, Rocky?”

“Like an Italian Stallion.” Dean chuckles under his breath as Sam drags himself into the kitchen to hunt for some coffee. “And I’m talking ‘decapitated head in the bed’ kind. Seriously, I think I’m more exhausted now than I was this morning.” He manages to find some instant powder crap, but it’ll do, so he dunks a couple spoonfuls into a slightly cracked mug. “Please tell me you’ve got something.”

Dean groans and stretches his arms out behind him. And his fingernails are painted a chipped pink. How did Sam miss that? “Most of these whackjobs are convinced that Jesus Christ will ‘break any curse with his righteousness’,” he says. “But other than that, not much.”

Sam leans back against the counter as he waits for his beverage to finish heating. After a minute or so he says, “Don’t you think that’s kind of weird?”

Dean gives him a blank look. “That Jesus freaks like to talk about Jesus?”

“That we’ve never met him.” The microwave beeps and Sam turns to claim his prize. “I mean, we’ve met just about everyone else. Willing or not.”

His brother rolls his eyes. “I think we’ve got _enough_ crazy, religious figures to deal with without you calling more assholes down on our heads.”

Sam snorts and settles down into the mismatched chair across the table. “Do we really have absolutely no leads?”

Dean makes a face and shifts his head back and forth. “Well, there’s been some reputable stuff I could find. But it’s mostly what we already know.” He turns the overheated laptop to face Sam, and the fan whirs in protest of the movement. “We could fulfill the obligations of the curse…” 

“Right. Ride it out. Like we did with that bug thing.” Dean shivers, and Sam can’t blame him. It definitely hadn’t been one of his top ten evenings either. “But we can’t do that in this case,” he says. “Because it’ll just keep going until we die.”

Dean nods. “Then there’s cleansing…” 

“Fire. Like with the rabbit’s foot.” Sam sighs and takes a sip of his shitty coffee. He thinks the mug might not have been washed out first, because there’s a distinctive whiskey aftertaste. “But when we tried that with Bryant, it almost lit him up too.” 

“Yup.” Dean rubs at his forehead. “And last but not least, is trapping the curse…” 

Sam thumps his head onto the table. “Which would require a curse box.”

“Exactly. So, basically we’re up shit creek without a paddle.” Dean shrugs. “I mean there’s some stuff here about mirrors and candles which we can try, but—” He’s cut off by the blaring music of the Cops theme song.

_“Bad boys, bad boys. Whatcha gonna do?—”_

They glance uncertainly at each other. 

 _“Whatcha gonna do when they come for you?—”_  

Dean gestures down to the cell phone rattling against the dingy plastic of the dining table. “You gonna get that?”

_“Bad boys, bad boy—”_

Sam swipes his thumb to accept the call and tentatively lifts the phone to his ear. “Hello?” 

“Where the heck are you, Ramirez?” It’s the woman from the bridge. What was her name? Montgomery. “Second shift started an hour ago, and Willis is a slight breeze away from having a stroke.” 

Sam winces and fumbles for a reasonable excuse. “Um, look. Last night was kind of intense for me. Is there any way I could use a sick day on this one?” 

“Are you frickin’ kidding me?” the voice rants into his ear. “Garza says you left with the jumper last night! _And_ you talked him out of taking her to the hospital!” There’s a loud, angry exhale of breath. “Okay, I don’t know if you’re going through some sort of mental break right now or what. But after that stunt you pulled on the bridge, and after breaching protocol _again_ to drive an emotionally disturbed girl home by yourself—” There’s a brief pause as Montgomery collects herself. “I’m just saying, if you don’t get your butt in here now, the sergeant’s gonna do way worse than a mandatory psych eval.” Her voice turns sincere. “I’m talking full investigation here, Miguel. So, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but figure it out _now_. And you better have a decent excuse for Willis when you come in. Fair warning, partner.”

The line goes dead, and Sam tosses the phone onto the table and runs a hand over his head. “Shit.”

“You okay there?” Dean’s fingers hover above his own, concerned but patient. 

“That was my partner from the station. If I don’t go in, they’re gonna roll out a full investigation.

Dean snorts. “On you?”

“They think it’s suspicious that I took you home without permission. And didn’t bring you to a hospital.” Sam groans and drops his head into his hands. “And if they call your address, what’s-his-face is gonna pick up and tell them I took you to a safehouse. And if they search me, they’re gonna find you here—” 

“Hey, c’mon. _Relax_.” Dean grabs onto his wrists before he can hyperventilate himself into unconsciousness. “Go to the station,” he says calmly. “You tell them that I didn’t seem like I needed a hospital, so you took me home.” Dean tugs at his hands until he can catch Sam’s eyes. “Then you say that I didn’t want to go to my boyfriend’s, so we came up with an excuse and you dropped me at a friend’s house. Alright?” He waits for Sam’s nod before he continues. “If they don’t buy something, then send me a message to your email. Tell me if I need to head over to some other address or something.” He taps at the laptop. “I’ll keep checking it, okay?” 

Sam lets out a deep breath and wills himself calm. “Yeah, okay. That makes sense.” He glances down at his brother. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly. “I don’t know why I freaked out like that. Guess I’m still over-tired or something.”

Dean frowns a little and his gaze gets distant. “Yeah, me too.” Then he catches himself and throws on a careless expression. “So, you go try to find the rat at the station and I’ll look more into this mirror thing. If you stop him, I’m betting we’ll end up somewhere without the law breathing down our necks.”

Sam shakes his head and hopes his smile doesn’t look as bleak as it feels. “I don’t know, man. I’m starting to think that each situation’s worse than the last.”

“Well, yeah,” Dean scoffs. “With _that_ attitude.” His brother affectionately pats the side of his face and hands him Miguel’s phone. “And be careful with that Internal Affairs crap, Sammy. Snitches get stitches.”

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

Sam takes a deep breath and heads through the station doors. Miguel’s uniform had still been a little clammy, so he’d thrown on some jeans and kept the hoodie. Hoping against hope that looking casual and exhausted would buy him some sympathy. And work with the whole, ‘I’m all messed up from my heroic leap off the bridge’ excuse he’s been clinging to.

He makes his way into the bullpen, and most of the occupants’ eyes flick to the movement of his entrance. But almost all of them slide away just as quickly. Except for Montgomery’s. She pins him to the wall with a disappointed stare and waits, ever patiently, until Sam summons the will to slink over to her desk. He doesn’t even know this woman, but somehow the sincere, older sister concern she radiates has Sam kowtowing like Dean’s the one he let down.

“Willis is in a meeting,” she says mildly. And quietly. Like if she lets out one misplaced outburst, he’ll crack under the pressure. “You wanna run what happened by me first?” 

Sam sinks into the chair across from her desk and puts on his most beleaguered expression before starting. “I may have been a little more messed up after the bridge than I thought.” She gently nods for him to continue. “The, um, the girl was talking to Officer—” he racks his brain, “— _Garza_ , but she didn’t seem ‘emotionally disturbed’. She said she was only up there for fun, but the cops scared her and the whole thing got out of hand.” Sam holds his palms out innocently. “You can ask Garza. He’ll say the same thing I just did.” Montgomery rakes her gaze over him, but seems convinced by his pseudo-truths and waits for him to finish. “She wanted me to take her home.” He shrugs. “I guess she trusted me because of the jump.”

“Makes sense,” Montgomery says calmly. And Sam feels almost guilty for lying to her.

He clears his throat. “I called dispatch for her address—you can check that too—but she didn’t want to stay at her boyfriend’s place. So I escorted her to the door and helped her grab some stuff.” He relaxes his expression and tries to sound casual. “She told her boyfriend something about staying somewhere else for the night, and then I dropped her at a friend’s house.” He spreads his hands. “And that’s the whole of it." 

Montgomery studies him for another unending moment, and she must find whatever she’s looking for because she gives him a small smile. “Okay, Miguel. I wish you’d have let me know before the sergeant had a fit. Or that you’d called in this morning.” She throws him a wry glance. “But that sounds on the level.”

Sam gives her his best innocent grin, the one that charms little old ladies into spilling the beans on their nephews’ forays into devil worship. “Any way you could clear this up with the sergeant for me?” he asks, then tugs at his hoodie. “I don’t really think I should be on patrol today.”

Montgomery lets out an amused, but put-upon sigh. “Yeah, yeah.” She rolls her eyes. “You’re lucky you’re Mr. Hero around here. Even if most of us think you lost your fudging mind.” She jerks her head to a desk across the room. “Just deal with your ridiculous backlog of paperwork today and I’ll handle things with Willis.”

Sam tosses her a sincere smile of thanks, and heads over to Miguel’s desk. He boots up the computer and sets up a few important-looking program windows so that casual passersby will think he’s knee-deep in work. Then he turns his attention to the congenial clutter of his desk. A few wind-up toys and a stuffed bear in a cop’s hat grin up at him. His eyes catch on the small, paper calendar next to his monitor. It’s cheerful enough, the bright red letters declare that it’s FRIDAY, JANUARY 25TH. And the word of the day is apparently _fantod_. Which, the entry informs Sam, is ‘a state of irritability and tension’. He scoffs to himself. Sam’s pretty sure he gets the fantods every time his brother insists on playing into Muramasa’s bullshit. And speaking of Dean…

Sam tilts his head back to scope the rest of the cops milling about. No one seems particularly evil or murderous to Sam’s eyes. But he’s not as good at this NCIS stuff as his brother is. Montgomery is back at her desk now, subtly smiling into her phone and twirling the wedding ring on her left hand. Willis has moved slightly outside of his office to fix Sam with a strict, but concerned nod. He takes a moment to adjust the plaque on his door until it’s Marine-straight, and Sam gets that ping of paternal nostalgia again. There’s a few officers chatting about a TV show by the coffee pot, but most seem to be working calmly at their desks. And one woman is leaning over a man’s shoulder, shamelessly flirting as she pretends to misunderstand the program he’s explaining over and over. 

Sam keeps an eye out for the rest of the day, but no one ever breaks character and starts monologuing about the deliciousness of murder, so his stakeout is mostly useless. He’s about to blow his brains out from sheer boredom, when he decides to send Dean a quick email.

 

_D~_

_Everything’s fine. Situation all handled. No rat yet. Any progress on your end?_

_~S_

 

He links the message through a firewall, then a proxy server, then another firewall, and sends it off to his own address. And he only has to wait a few minutes until he gets a reply.

 

_Scully~_

_Glad to know the puppy dog eyes work even without the stupid hair. Try the angry black guy, he seems angry. I’ve got full ritual instructions if you want to try when you get home._

_P.S. I want to suck your cock._

_~Mulder_

 

Sam scrambles to close out the window, frantically glancing over his shoulder to make sure none of the meanderers behind him caught a glimpse.

 

_Asshole~_

_I am not **sexting** with you while I’m at work. It isn’t Willis. It’s  not. Yeah, that sounds good. The ritual, not the other thing. Be back soon._

_P.S. You’re an asshole._

_~S_

 

Sam sends out his last message with an exaggerated click of the mouse. He’s about to see if he can sneak out a little early and maybe pick up some take-out on the way back (if Dean gets his way, they’ll be eating cold pizza until they run out), when Garza pops up at his desk.

“Hey, Ramirez.” He hits Sam with another one of his broad, open grins. “Heard you were on desk duty today. You get reamed out yet?”

“Uh, no.” Sam shifts back in his seat. “No reaming.”

“Oh. That’s good, man.” He claps a large hand to Sam’s back. “So, hey, you happen to have Suicide Girl’s info?” He holds out a plastic evidence bag. “Coast Guard found her cell when they trawled the river and you were the one who took her home, so…” He plunks the phone onto Miguel’s desk. “Think you can help it find its way home?” Garza grins again and nudges his elbow into the meat of Sam’s shoulder. “Not like you’d need an excuse to go see her again, right? I saw the way you guys were talking last night.” He mimes zipping his lips shut with a wink. “Don’t worry, man. I won’t say nothing if you don’t.”

Sam pulls the baggie closer to his chest. “Uh, it’s not like that. Seriously.” What is it about him and Dean that makes every single person in the universe think they’re sleeping together? Okay, so they _are_ , but it’s not like they’re shooting a beacon into the sky or anything. But Garza just holds his hands up amiably and swans off with one of his stupid smiles stretched across his face.

Sam sighs and tugs at the plastic. Great. Now he’s probably ruined Miguel Ramirez’s career with a completely unfounded sex scandal. He manages to get the bag open and tips the phone out into his palm. It looks pretty severely waterlogged, but it’s dry enough now that he might be able to get something from it. The case is pink, like Elizabeth’s wallet and bedroom, and when he presses the power button, the lock screen flashes onto a picture of a kitten with angel wings. Sam tilts his head and considers the image. Angels might actually be easier to deal with if they were that tiny and adorable. Although, given their usual Winchester luck, they’d probably end up being just as horrifying if they were cats. And they’d have tiny claws to boot.

The phone itself is mostly useless. There’s splotches of rainbow blurring along large portions of the screen and none of the contacts are legible. Sam scrolls through a few of Elizabeth’s photos, the faces are obscured by the damage, but he thinks he can make out a couple of her and Shaun. The only other working data seems to be the videos. He taps on one and the screen stutters a bit, but the audio makes it clear she’s singing a pop song with another female friend. Sam passes by a few more. Elizabeth and another friend making faces into the camera. Elizabeth without makeup, shoving a hand over the screen and yelling at Shaun. Elizabeth documenting a stray cat outside her apartment. 

He’s about to write it off as a lost cause, when one more video starts to play. The camera is tilted at an angle, like the phone had been placed on the table and forgotten about.

 _“Lizzie. Lizzie, c’mon.”_ That’s Shaun’s voice. Sam can see a flash of red hair in the corner of the screen as Elizabeth turns her head away. _“Are you ignoring me? Seriously?”_ Then there’s a streak of white t-shirt as Shaun prowls up along the side of the couch. _“Lizzie Borden.”_

 _“Don’t call me that.”_ Elizabeth apparently forgets she’s pissed and turns to berate him. _“You know I hate it. Stop it.”_

 _“Lizzie Borden…”_ Shaun’s stretches his voice into a parody of a melody.

 _“Stop it, Shaun!”_ She’s turned her head back away now, but it doesn’t seem to deter him. 

 _“Lizzie Borden took an axe.”_ Shaun slides his hand up Elizabeth’s wrist, gripping tight when she gives a lackluster tug. _“Gave her mother forty whacks.”_  

Elizabeth tries to yank her arm away, more willful this time. _“I hate that. You know I hate it! Stop!”_

Shaun’s got both of her wrists now, pinning her against the couch with his larger frame. _“When she saw what she had done.”_

 _“Get off of me! I’m serious, stop it!”_ Elizabeth looks tiny. Fragile and scared without Dean’s bravado to fill up all the spaces. _“Shaun. Stop it!”_

He brings a hand up to clench around the thin column of her neck. _“She gave her father forty-one.”_ Elizabeth tries for one last struggle, but Shaun tightens his grip. Her foot lashes out, knocking the camera off the table, and the video cuts to black.

Sam stares incredulously at the blank screen of the phone. He would never have even guessed. And he’d actually felt sorry for the little fucker. He had put on that stupid, simpering, woe-is-me face and Sam had fallen hook, line, and sinker. They _both_ had. Sam’s heart clenches like a fist inside his chest. 

Dean is alone right now.

With a psychotic, violent _dick_ pining for the body he’s wearing.

Sam launches himself at the computer and rattles off another desperate email.

 

_D~_

_It’s the **boyfriend**. I’m coming home now. Don’t open the door._

 

He catapults out of his desk chair and goes barreling through the station door, ignoring the fact that this is his second, dramatic exit in as many days. Miguel’s house is only a few minutes away, and there’s no way creepy Shaun would have been able to find out where Dean was staying. They're fine. Dean is going to be fine. Everything is going to be fine.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

The door is ajar. Not by much. Nothing that would signal a home-invasion or a robbery or anything sinister to an over-zealous neighbor. But the front door is ever so slightly ajar. And Sam’s heart sinks like a stone and curdles in his stomach. He slowly swings the door inwards, quietly as he can, and lets out a breath of relief when the hinges don’t squeak.

“Why would you do this to me?” Shaun’s voice scuds around the corner and along the foyer. “How could you do this to me, when everything I do is for you? Why do you have to be so _selfish?”_

“Wow.” And there’s the dry tone of his brother’s ‘unimpressed’ voice. “She really hit the jackpot when she picked you, huh?” Dean sounds too calm. Cajoling. Like maybe there’s a gun on him. Sam shuts the door behind him with an intentional click, subtle enough that his brother should hear it, but Shaun might not. Then Dean’s speaking again, a little too loud. “How’d you guys even meet anyway? You serenade her with some bad music? Sing her some ‘Funkytown’?" 

 _Fuck_. Sam silently thumps his head against the wall as his last hope flies away. And Shaun starts freaking out again. “Why are you talking like that? Why do you keep talking like that?” His voice takes a turn for the sinister. “Are you making fun of me? Is that what you’re trying to do?”

Sam sidles around the hallway corner to see Shaun pointing a gun squarely at his brother’s chest. The same gun that Sam had left with his uniform this afternoon like a fucking _idiot_. Shaun’s back is to Sam—for now—but Sam’s shit out of luck without a weapon of his own. His best bet might be to grab the guy from behind, but if the gun goes off, it’ll be pointed straight at Dean. Sam ducks back around the corner and scouts for anything he can use to smash across the back of Shaun’s head. But Miguel’s stupidly empty house doesn’t have much to offer him other than a stack of envelopes and a pea coat hung on the foyer’s single nail. He tugs at it, because maybe he can stab the thing into the back of Shaun’s neck before he can pull the trigger (yeah, that’s gonna work out well), when the plaster cracks under his hands. And the voices in the other room go silent.

“Come out, right the fuck now. Or I swear to god, I’m gonna _shoot_ my girlfriend! And then myself!” Sam carefully steps into the next room, hands in the air as non-threatening as possible. Shaun has Dean wrenched up against his side, with the barrel of the gun jammed into the side of his throat. He presses his face into Elizabeth’s red hair and inhales deeply. “See, pussycat. I’m being so romantic. Do you see what I’m willing to do for you?” 

Dean just fights back a grimace and swallows around the muzzle pressing into his neck. “So glad you could make it, Sammy,” he grits out. “But maybe next time work on your stealth, yeah?”

Sam can feel his face crumple. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Dean, I’m _so_ sorry.”

And maybe it’s the hopelessness of the moment, or maybe Sam looks even more broken than he feels, but Dean’s expression softens as well. “It’s not your fault, darlin’.”

“Don’t,” Shaun screeches. “Don’t call him that!” He jams the gun further into Dean’s skin. “Are you cheating on me? Is that what you were really doing?” Shaun steps behind him and presses the barrel directly against Dean’s chest. “Look, pussycat. We can both die like this.” His tone is simperingly sweet again. “I forgive you. I love you so much and I forgive you and look, we can both die right now.”

Sam is trying to calculate how fast he can throw himself at the man across the room, when another body jumps up into his peripheral.

“Put the gun down.” Montgomery’s arms are outstretched and she’s got her own firearm pointed directly at Shaun’s psycho fucking head. “Detroit PD. Put the gun down _now_ , or I will be forced to take action.”

Shaun jerks the gun up to Dean’s temple. “Don’t you dare! If you do anything, I’ll kill her! I swear to god!”

“Sir, put the gun down now.” 

“You don’t believe me, but I’ll do it! I swear! I swear to god, I’ll do it!” 

Shaun’s body is directly behind Dean’s. And there’s no way Montgomery’s going to be able to get a decent bead on him as is. And from Sam’s experience, Mexican stand-offs usually end up bloody. He catches his brother’s eyes for a split second, and Dean nods. So subtle that no one else would be able to tell. 

And then Dean smashes his head back into Shaun’s nose.

There’s an audible crunch of breaking bone as Shaun cries out and snaps his head backwards. The gun flies out of his hand, but it’s too far away for either of them to reach without moving. Shaun gropes his hands out, gripping around Dean’s wrists, but Dean just hauls back and unleashes a brutal kick to his right knee. Shaun buckles again, but most of it seems to be out of shock at ‘Elizabeth’ fighting back at all. He gets another solid grip on Dean’s throat and Montgomery is shouting now and Dean jerks his body just enough to get out of the line of Montgomery’s aim. 

She’s still spouting protocol, “Let go of the girl, now!” and, “I _will_ shoot if I have to!” but it’s not good enough. And Shaun isn’t budging. So Sam wrenches the gun from her hands. And Montgomery is screaming at him now, probably trying to figure out exactly when her partner went off the fucking deep end, and ordering him to give her back the gun. But Sam just straightens his arms and takes aim. And pulls the trigger. 

Two shots.

Both directly through Shaun’s skull.

The room rings with echoes as all of the noise comes to an abrupt halt. Shaun’s body slowly slumps to the floor and Dean jerks back, gasping for breath as the corpse’s fingers slide off his throat. Then Sam calmly places the gun back into Montgomery’s frozen hands, and sweeps over to Dean so quickly that he doesn’t even remember moving.

“Are you okay? You’re okay. Dean, c’mon.” He’s got his brother’s small— _too small, he’s too small and he’s fragile_ —body cradled in his arms, and he keeps fluttering his hands over the bruising on Dean’s throat. “You’re fine. You’re gonna be fine.” 

Dean takes a halting breath, and then groans in his arms. “Sam. Fuck off,” he croaks. “Jesus.” He half-heartedly pushes at Sam’s embrace, but he’s alive. Dean’s alive and he’s fine and Sam just laughs and clings tighter. “Ow. Go easy, you giant dork.”

“What the fuck happened?” Sam says loudly, effervescence bubbling up now that the terror has passed. “How’d you let Chachi get the drop on you?” He presses his face into Dean’s hair and pretends not to think about the fact that Shaun had been doing the exact same thing not moments before. And Dean just makes a few, evasive grumbling noises and slips a hand around the back of Sam’s neck.

“Ramirez.” Montgomery’s voice is soft and uncertain. “Miguel.” She keeps her gaze steady as Sam twists to meet her eyes. “What the heck was that? You need to—” She closes her eyes like the words are hurting her. “What you just did…”

Sam slowly releases his brother, making sure Dean is fine on his own (which he is apparently, because all Sam gets for his silent concern is an insolent glare), and rises to face Montgomery directly. “How did you know to come here?”

Montgomery scoffs, looking slightly relieved to not be discussing the elephant in the room. “What, you mean after that load of bullpoop you fed me at the station?” She raises an eyebrow. “You think I’m some dumb rookie? That I’d be green enough to fall for one word of that?” Montgomery crosses her arms and shakes her head. “I followed you the whole way back. So if you could please explain all that craziness that I just followed you back for…?”

Sam starts to open his mouth, then gives up entirely and just lets it out in a defeated sigh. “Look, you wouldn’t believe me even if I explained it.”

“Try me.” Her tone is dead serious, brooking no room for any of Sam’s vague half-answers. Then her ringtone blares out from her back pocket and she looks like she’s about to have an aneurysm. She yanks the phone up to her ear and barks, “What the _fuck_ is it?” And all of the color instantly drains out of her face. “No, Brad, I know. I’m sorry. No, I know that I said I wasn’t going to curse anymore.” She holds up an exasperated finger at Sam’s face, then takes a few steps away for some privacy. “No, don’t you _‘Christine’_ me. You have no idea what I’ve just gone through tonight…” Her voice trails off as she rounds the corner and Sam glances back at his brother lightly wheezing on the floor. 

Dean blinks up at him, squinting. “Think we’ll get kicked before she comes back?”

Sam huffs out a laugh and says, “We can only hope.” Then he kneels down next to Dean on the cheap carpet and presses their foreheads together. “Christ,” he exhales. “This shit is not fun anymore. And it really wasn’t that fun to begin with.”

“I dunno, Sammy.” Dean smiles and cocks his head. “I had a _little_ fun.”

Sam snorts. “What, masturbating in front of a mirror?” 

“You should join me next time,” he offers, voice still raspy from his failed strangulation. Then he tugs at the back of Sam’s neck and pulls him into a relieved, celebratory kiss. And Sam should really be worried about what Montgomery will find when she comes back, but his exhausted brain won’t let him do anything more than fall against his brother’s lips. Dean hums into his mouth and Sam brings a hand up to rub at the disturbingly soft line of his brother’s jaw. He lets Dean tug him closer, sucking and teasing at his bottom lip. But Sam stops dead as the events of the evening catch up to him, and he can’t hold back his laughter, cracking up directly into his brother’s mouth.

“Dude.” Dean looks unpleasantly insulted. “What?” 

Sam just shakes his head and tries to breathe. “You…” He turns his head into the side of Dean’s face. “You thought it was a cop.”

“Yeah?” Dean makes a hitching motion, probably trying to pull him back into the kiss. “So?”

“It was the boyfriend.” He stares at Dean until he can finally see the reference register. “Batman, my ass,” he laughs. “You are _terrible_ at this.”

“Shut up, Sam.” 

“What happened to being the master of crap TV, huh?”

Dean gives up on Sam’s mouth and shoves him away instead. “Can we please just let it go?”

Sam palms his brother’s face and rubs a thumb at the corner of his eye. There should be crinkles there, but there aren’t. “No,” he says. “I’m never letting you live it down. Ever.”

Dean closes his eyes and lets out a deep breath. Then changes the subject with all the subtlety of a raging bull. “You feeling dizzy yet?”

“Yeah,” Sam smiles. “Also. You’re a terrible detective.”

Dean raises a hand to weakly flip him off just as Montgomery steps back into the room. And Sam shakily lifts his head to focus on her. “Okay, Ramirez," she says softly. "Can you please tell me what’s going on? I think you owe me that much.”

Sam tosses her a bittersweet grin as the darkness starts to stain the edges of his vision. “Yeah, I bet he does.” The last thing Sam hears before he slips away is her noise of frustration.

“—kids can change you. I’ll bet you end up part of a PTA within two months.” Miguel turns to look at Montgomery, but he already is looking at Montgomery. Or at least, _up_ at her. And they’re in his house for some reason. And his partner looks like she wants to strangle him. He furrows his brow and glances at her in confusion. “The fuck?” He gets to his feet, trying not to freak out as much as he feels he should be entitled to. “What happened to the bridge? Is that…” he glances down at the girl on his floor. “Is that the jumper?

Montgomery continues to look at him like he’s lost his mind. And maybe he has, because he can’t remember anything past leaning against his cruiser. Outside. In different clothes. “Miguel,” she starts slowly. “What are you talking about?” 

He tries for a laugh, but it sounds pathetic even to his ears. “Why are you calling me Miguel? Did someone die?” He'd meant it as a joke, but his partner blanches and her eyes remain too steady on his.

“Do you remember anything from today?” she asks. 

“What? You mean the suicide attempt?” 

Montgomery looks even more dismal, if that’s possible. “That was last night, Miguel.” 

His blood runs cold. “What?”

Suddenly, the girl at his feet starts screaming. Miguel wheels back from the noise, but his eyes catch on the other body strewn across his floor. The corpse. And he feels like screaming as well. 

Montgomery kneels down to try and comfort the girl, but her eyes are fixed solely on him. “Its okay,” she says. But it sounds like she’s trying to convince herself more than him. “You jumped off a bridge. This must be some sort of delayed shock thing. Which makes sense, because you’ve been acting like a lunatic ever since.” 

Miguel swallows around the lump in his throat. “That’s my gun on the floor, Montgomery. Did I…” He breaks off to collect himself. “Did I do this?”

Montgomery’s eyes flick to the gun and back. Guilty. “No,” she says quietly. Then she tightens her soothing hold on the girl in her arms. “I did it. It was self-defense.” She brings her head up, but won’t quite meet Miguel’s eyes. “I saved her life. And you didn't do anything wrong.”

 


	5. It's Time I Was King Now, Not Just One More Pawn

Roger Hamilton lets out a long, deep, meditative breath until the shrill nagging of his wife’s voice is nothing more than a suppressed whine nipping at the edges of his brain. Then he adds one more whiskey stone and sloshes another two fingers of amber liquid into the tumbler in his hand. Yes, he drinks. Because he needs it. Because he works hard. Because he does nothing but work. And Ellis & Hewitt not only pays for the quality of life to which _Karen_ has become accustomed, it also keeps her in her unending supply of brand-name bags and unnecessary fur coats and whatever other frivolous nonsense she likes to hoard in the seventeen rooms of their house that they don’t actually use.

Roger sighs and pours in one more finger of single malt for good measure. He’s under so much stress, his wife couldn’t even begin to fathom it. Not to mention that ever since Hewitt’s really fucking inconveniently timed heart attack, the entire board has been on his ass about fast-tracking a new VP for when he inevitably gets moved up to partner. Hewitt’s second, and fatal, heart attack in his hospital bed all of a week later had done everything except seal the deal with wax. Not that it was needed. Ellis had practically handed him the job on a silver platter. Golden platter, really. Roger strips off his China silk tie and tosses it over the back of the couch. He’s going to be partner soon, he should start thinking like one. Platinum platter. Ellis & _Hamilton_ has a better ring to it anyway. 

He’s three seconds away from desperately comfortable, the scotch and the ergonomic sofa cushions working in tandem to draw him into a state of supreme relaxation, when Karen’s voice comes boomeranging down and around the hallway. 

“Jesus Christ! Have you even listened to a single word I’ve said all night?” The high-pitched scolding bounces along the empty halls and cannonballs right for Roger’s good mood. “I swear to God, Roger. If you’re ignoring me again, I will do my absolute best to make your life a living hell.”

“You wouldn’t even have to try,” Roger mumbles under his breath. He is literally betting the well-being of his scrotum on the fact that his wife probably can’t hear him. Roger can definitely hear her though. Deaf geriatrics in space could hear Karen when she got into one of her moods. He could bottle her anger and sell it to some of those whiny, ninety-nine percenters if they ever needed something louder than a megaphone—

Dean comes to, with his feet propped up on an expensive-looking coffee table and a glass of whiskey in his hand. He takes a moment to steel himself against some sort of unexpected and horrific jackassery…

But nothing happens.

Dean squints one eye open. He’s not falling from any bridges. He’s not running for his life through the woods. He’s not a _chick_. Hell, he’s not even standing. His body is slouched across the single most comfortable thing Dean has ever had the privilege of sitting on, and he fully intends on never moving again. That is, until a woman’s voice starts clawing at the lining of his eardrums.

“Well?” The owner of the aforementioned screeching comes marching around the corner to lean against the doorway, arms stiffly crossed over the starched lines of her designer whatever-it-is that she’s wearing. A suit maybe? It almost looks like a dress if Dean tilts his head. There’s kind of a half-jacket thing involved along the top part. _“Well?”_  her voice violently slices through his musings. “Do you have a single thing to say for yourself?” The woman planted in front of him is older, late forties maybe. She’s elegant in sort of a cold, wealthy way, but the harsh line of her haircut and the tense set to her jaw make Dean feel like he’d get a paper cut just from touching her.

And he has absolutely no idea if she’s Sam. They’ve always arrived close-by before, and mystery lady is certainly pissy enough to pass for his brother, but there isn’t that spark in her eyes. That instantaneous _knowing_ that Sammy is hiding behind Random Stranger Number 7’s face. Dean has no idea how he senses it each time, just that he does. Soul recognition maybe. Which is sappy enough to make him want to puke just thinking about it. So instead, he goes with a tried and true favorite.

He clears his throat, peers at the woman across the room, and quietly says, “Serpicho.” It’s one of their oldest code words. Used as an identifier whenever one of them is undercover or using an unfamiliar number and needs to get a message through. Sam would identify the reference in a second.

But the woman at the doorway doesn’t light up into recognition or relief. Instead, her thin eyebrows shoot up her forehead and her hands clench even tighter around her elbows. “Excuse me? What is that supposed to mean?” Her eyes narrow down to slits. “Are you drunk? Already?” She lets out a subdued noise of disgust and turns on her heel. Like, literally. Turns on one sharp heel. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever actually seen someone do that before. “Don’t bother coming to bed tonight,” she spits over one shoulder. “Why don’t you let your bottles keep you company out here?” And with that, she’s gone. Like she’d never come storming through in the first place.

She definitely isn’t Sam. But Dean may have fucked up some poor schmoe’s marriage. He swings his feet off the low table, stretches, and casually appreciates the feeling of a dick in his pants. Even if it belongs to some other dude. Which might be the gayest thought he’s had in a while. And that includes two weeks ago, when he’d sucked all thoughts of _Amelia_ straight out of his brother’s head. The long way. Dean sniffs contemplatively. Well, regardless, he’s never taking his downstairs situation for granted again.

Dean glances down at the tumbler in his hand. He really needs to go find Sam, and judging from their previous jumps, his brother should probably be somewhere nearby. But… There really isn’t any sense in letting this poor man’s pour go to waste. And considering that Dean may have fucked up Mr. Rich Guy getting any tail for a while, he should probably finish this drink so that his body can enjoy the alcohol vicariously. Really, it’s the least he can do. 

He takes an experimental sip—and, oh,  _Jesus Christ_. It is, without a doubt, the most amazing thing Dean’s ever tasted. He tosses back the rest of the glass and jumps up to scout for the bottle. Because Dean doesn’t care how long he’s going to be stuck in this body if the liquor is this good. He pours himself another healthy amount from the god-knows-how-expensive-it-is Macallan tucked into the drawer of the room’s sturdy, dark-stained desk, and slides the bottle back into its solid oak hiding place. Judging from Mrs. Rich Guy’s earlier reaction, she’s not much of a drinker, but Dean isn’t taking any chances. He would really love some ridiculously amazing scotch to come back to if he gets even the slightest opportunity.

The house— _mansion, really_ —is huge enough that Dean expected there to be an armada of servants for Sam to have possibly ended up in. But a cursory sweep of the property reveals nothing other than halls upon halls of empty rooms. It’s possible that the help has all fucked off because of the late hour, but it doesn’t explain why he and Sam ended up so far apart this time. There’s a small video screen set up at the front door which links to a security feed down near what must be the front gate. But from what Dean can make out of the grainy, black and white image, the guard appears to be intensely invested in a few Punisher comics. And Dean doesn’t think that particular publication is anywhere near Sam’s alley, even on his worst day. Not to mention that Sam’s reaction to ending up in yet another strange body without his brother nearby, probably wouldn’t be to kick back with some light superhero reading. Although, Sam _is_ an odd duck. Who could know for sure?

Dean trudges his way back to the first room he’d woken up in. An ornate, gilded mirror in one of the three million hallways littering the route establishes that his current body is a tad older than any of Dean’s previous leaps. The guy’s in his fifties, but svelte, with kind of a silver fox thing going on. He looks old money, that’s for sure. And the ridiculously high-quality shirt and gold cufflinks would have dictated as much even if Dean _hadn’t_ woken up in Buckingham freaking Palace. Seriously, it feels like he’s wearing a cloud woven from only the most magical of spiderwebs. It’s fucking _luxurious_ , and Dean spares a second to wonder if they’ve got enough in their fake FBI budget to spring for just one shirt as over-the-top expensive as this one is. He’s guessing probably not. Not even with a fake card.

Dean scrubs a hand over his face and heads back to the fancy couch room. Or whatever it’s called. Sitting Room, maybe. Rich people always have unnecessary extra names for things that don’t need it. The guy he’s piloting has no wallet on him, and Dean doesn’t have any idea where to even start looking for its hiding place in the five hundred rooms he’s already passed by. So instead, he scans his gaze over the multitude of meticulously framed diplomas lining the walls.

 

_**Roger Hamilton** _

_MBA from Wharton. Undergrad at Columbia._

 

Well, la-dee-fucking-dah. At least Dean’s got a name to put to the face. He pulls up the leather desk chair and boots up Roger’s computer. If he can send an email to Sam, maybe he can figure out where his brother’s soul has scampered off to. That is, if Sam even thinks to check his messages. But the desktop’s start up immediately disavows him of the idea that things could ever be easy, because Roger’s computer is password protected. Which, really, Dean should have seen coming. There’s probably all sorts of incriminating off-shore corporations and creative accounting and who knows what else stored up in the dude’s private files. There’d have to be, for him to afford a place like this.

Dean clunks his regrettably empty glass onto the wood desk and drags himself to the magic couch across the room. He’s pretty sure that he hasn’t slept in two days. At least, he thinks it’s been two days. It’s becoming frustratingly impossible to keep track of time when he’s constantly getting kicked into random people in random locations at randomly different times of day. Or maybe Roger’s just exhausted from a long, full day of ordering minions around and chortling over stock portfolios. Rich guys chortled, right? Whatever the case may be, Mrs. Roger Hamilton made it impeccably clear that he wasn’t welcome in her bedroom. (Which is a shame, because Dean is never one to turn down a little easy cougar action). And he really doesn’t want to go tramping through the mansion again to find a suitable replacement bed. So, Dean shoves his face into the couch cushions and lets the magic of high-quality memory foam and butter soft leather carry him off to an easy and comfortable sleep.

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” The clipped consonants and haughty tone of scorn from above jerks Dean back to the land of the living _—There was water. There was rushing water and it was cold. Too cold. Freezing. And they were stuck. The two of them. Him and Sam—_

Dean forces his eyes open and lets the sharp daylight sear the dream from his brain. Then he lets out a very eloquent, “Huh-wha?”

The pointy woman from last night is hovering over where he’d contorted himself around the couch’s throw pillows. “Did you _choose_ to sleep out here like a delinquent?” she asks tartly. “Or were you just too liquored up to make it to an actual bed?”

“Uh, no. I…” Dean’s brain idles a little as it warms up to full consciousness. What had happened last night? Mrs. Howell had been pissed about something and she was loud and she wasn’t Sam, and that is really the extent of Dean’s awareness of the situation. He clears his throat and tries to make the ‘rumpled shirt and slacks from yesterday’ look come off as presentable as possible. “You were right,” he starts. “About…” He scans her face in an attempt at guessing the grievance. No dice. “About everything.”

There, that should cover Roger’s bases. Hell hath no fury and all that. Which is kind of a stupid saying in the first place. They really need to amend that whole concept. Because in Dean’s experience, Hell hath plenty of fury. In fact, the only woman he can think of who even came close was Natasha Glover back in Eldon, Missouri when he was twenty. And although Dean doubts she ever would have _actually_ made good on her (very detailed) threat, he was still twitchy around kitchen shears for the next three months or so.

Roger’s wife looks as appeased as she’s probably gonna get, although the pinched cast to her mouth is still evident in the morning light. “Fine,” she sighs, and backs off. “Good. It’s not like I’m not asking for much, anyway.” She nods briskly and turns back to the hallway with a practical click of her heels. At like—what time is it anyway? Dean throws his Rolex _(nice)_ a quick glance. At like 6:15am, she’s already made up and coiffed and looking like she’s ready to hit the Kentucky Derby. “Get dressed,” she says. “Maria’s making breakfast as we speak.”

Dean lugs himself up and eventually manages to find the master bath after four false starts, two wrong doors, and the help of a cautiously quizzical butler (who very pointedly is not Sam). And oh, what a thing of beauty it is when Dean actually does set eyes on it. He kind of wants to cry a little at the sight of the gorgeous steam shower, but forces himself to focus on getting ready so that he can turn his attention to more important things. However, he does make sure to use every single one of the fancy shampoos. Because he might as well live a little.

Afterwards, Dean throws on the most unobtrusive suit he can find, and scuttles downstairs to look for his brother. Maria isn’t Sam (although with the way she makes an omelet, Dean considers trading up for a minute) and neither are either of the two maids dusting the art in the living room or the landscaper enjoying a bagel on the edge of the veranda. He checks the security feed one more time, and although the guard has been switched out for the next shift, the new guy has tuned the little baby TV in front of him to display a reality show about paternity suits. So, Dean’s going to go out on a limb and assume his brother is to be found elsewhere.

“Ready to go, Mr. Hamilton?” A young man in a chauffeur’s hat blinks up at him agreeably. “You said the office was expecting you at eight sharp, right?”

The kid looks sweet, if a little simple-minded, and Dean knows the answer even before he gets the words out. But he tries anyway. “Serpicho?”

The chauffeur looks at him like he’s just asked him to solve the riddle of the sphinx. “Excuse me, sir?”

Dean sighs and shallowly shakes his head. “Nothing, man. Sure. Lets head out to the nine-to-five.” Sam fucking has to be there if he’s anywhere. “Go ahead, Hoke Colburn.” He lifts a hand out and ignores the kid’s blank stare. “Lead the way.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Roger Hamilton’s office…is bitchin’.

There is no other word for it. A huge, floor to ceiling window floods the room with natural light and opens onto an impressive view of downtown Hartford, Connecticut. Wherein lie the central offices of Ellis & Hewitt, which Dean was able to find out very skillfully and all on his own. Because he’s a great detective—go fuck yourself, Sam—and just because one fluke psycho eluded his powers of deductive reasoning, doesn’t mean he’s lost his touch.

Dean is starting to wonder if he can abuse Roger Hamilton’s obvious clout in order to wrangle some coffee out of one of the frantically milling interns bustling past his office. Or temps, or whatever. Whoever they are, they have the tendency to scurry. He’s just about to start pressing random buttons and hoping one of them patches him through to a worker bee, when an overly-chipper, but slightly manic young man pops his head into Roger’s office.

The kid pales behind his dusting of freckles, then does his best to look like he’s not trying to meld into the door behind him. “Good morning, Mr. Hamilton.” His grin teeters on the borderline of cheerful, then tips solidly into the chasm of high-strung. “Your secretary isn’t in yet, sir. I don’t know what happened, but I’m _sure_ Rosalind will show up any minute now.” 

Dean sighs and leans back against his desk. At this point he’s mostly burnt out over his futile search for Sam, and this kid obviously isn’t his brother, but figures he might as well make the effort. Dean runs a weary hand over his eyes and asks, “What’s your favorite Pacino flick?”

Howdy Doody opens and closes his mouth a couple times, then wrings his hands in a not-so-skillful attempt to keep them from trembling. “Um,” he squeaks out. “S-scarface?” And Dean’s dissatisfaction must be obvious, because he nearly drowns in his own anxiety while trying to backtrack. “I’m sorry, sir. Was that wrong? Is it The Godfather? Please—p-please don’t fire me.”

Dean chooses to take pity on the kid before he has a minor heart attack on his floor, and throws him a bone. “What is it that you do for me? Exactly?”

Freckles swallows hard and says, “I’m, uh— I’m your assistant?”

“Precisely.” Dean decides to go for broke and thumps the top of Roger’s desk for emphasis. “And _as_ my assistant…” Dean trails off, emphatically _non_ -rhetorically, and holds out a hand in expectation.

“Um…Hubert?”

“Well, _obviously_ ,” Dean says with a melodramatic roll of his eyes, then he mentally chalks down the moniker. “Last name, kid.”

“Oh.” Hubert pauses. “Uh…Holland, sir.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Your name is Hubert Holland?” Hubert simply nods in meek confirmation. “What, your parents have a thing against ankle biters not being bullied enough?”

The kid runs the statement through his brain and Dean can practically see the gears turning. “No? Not that I’m aware of. Sir.”

Dean lets out an amused breath. “Okay, Bert. Look, I’m gonna need you to _assist_ me in grabbing some joe. That sound kosher?” Hubert nods so forcefully, Dean’s half expecting his head to detach. His assistant is halfway out the door before Dean groans and calls him back in. “How, uh…” He grimaces. “How do I usually take my coffee, Bert?”

Hubert narrows his eyes like it’s a trick question. “Three sugars and two creams,” he declares assuredly. Then he hitches back a step and starts trembling again. “R-right?”

“Uh, right.” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb. Roger’s nose. Roger’s finger and thumb. “Just bring it black this time, okay? Seriously, straight from the pot. No froufrou bullshit.”

Hubert hesitates a moment, probably waiting for his douchebag boss to blindside him with yet another insane curveball, then nods and books it out of the room.

Dean sighs and grabs a piece of paper out of the printer on his desk. He snags the closest pen and scrawls **SERPICHO** across the sheet, then uses Roger’s tape wheel to affix the message to the outside of his door. If Sam is anyone in this office, that’s the best chance of him seeing it.

He’s twenty minutes into glaring at Roger’s work computer—the bastard has this one password locked too—when an office type comes barreling into the room. She swings open his door, whirls around to shut it behind her, then leans against it, resting her forehead on the wood. Dean clears his throat. “Uh, can I help you, sugar?”

“Dean, shut up. It’s me.” 

Sam turns to shoot him an exasperated look, and Dean has to fight back the shameless smile trying to crawl its way across his face. He leans back in his desk chair with an exaggerated stretch. “Well, well, well. Not so easy being a chick, is it Sammy?”

His brother refuses to respond and just fixes him with his prissiest glare. And Sam is _unfairly_ hot, even with the promise of imminent death in his eyes. Distractingly hot. The woman he’s riding is Asian. Tall and toned, with high-cut cheekbones and hair swept up into a polished ponytail. He’s wearing a blouse that’s way too tight to possibly be comfortable and a gray miniskirt that hits just the right side of scandalous.

“Are you done drooling?” Sam asks dryly, cutting through Dean’s appreciative sweep of the goods. “Can we focus now? Or would you prefer a lap dance first?”

Dean snorts. “Well, if you’re offering.” But Sam looks like he’s about to blow a gasket, so he reels it back in. “What? Not so fun when you’re on the other end?” Sam’s lips tighten into a thin line and he won’t concede Dean’s point. So Dean changes the subject instead. “Tell me, Sammy.” He rests his chin in one hand. “Has Lucy Liu there got a name to go with those gams?” 

“Rosalind Yin,” Sam says flatly. “At least, that’s what was on her license.”

“Rosalind, huh? Think you might be my secretary, man.” He punctuates the statement with a waggle of his eyebrows. “Y’know, I might be able to wrangle you a promotion if you can find some way to make it up to me. Show me how _dedicated_ you are to the work.” But Sam still won’t bite. “Seriously, dude. It was a joke.” Dean scoots back in his chair until he can throw his feet up on the desk. “Who pissed in your coffee this morning?”

“I didn’t _get_ coffee this morning, Dean. Because I woke up in someone else’s bed getting—” His brother breaks off with a strained noise, then chokes out, “…getting felt up by _Rosalind Yin’s_ boyfriend.”

Dean’s eyes widen like dinner plates, and he bites at his bottom lip trying to cage in the insulting bark of laughter. “Hey,” he croaks. He can’t help it, the mockery is doing it’s damnedest to escape the prison of his teeth, and Dean can only hold back so much. It’s basically his inherent right as an older brother. “Sounds like a good morning to me. He give you the ol’ reach around, like a proper gentleman?”

Sam finally slips away from the door and collapses into the slightly less-impressive seat across Roger’s desk. “I thought it was you at first,” he mutters through his fingers. “Didn’t even consider why someone else’s mouth would be attacking my face first thing in the morning.” Sam groans and won’t meet Dean’s eyes. “It took me like thirty seconds to actually realize what was going on.”

Dean covers his smirk with a diplomatic hand. “How’d you figure it out?”

Sam flushes even more, if that’s possible. He drops his head against Roger’s desk and mumbles incoherently into the wood.

“Can’t hear you, Sammy.”

“His _tongue_ , okay?” Sam stammers. Then he seems to register his too-loud outburst and buries his mortified face into the cradle of his elbows. “I said it was his tongue.” He lifts a hand and twitches it demonstratively. “He did like…a different _thing_.”

Dean’s vocal cords make an embarrassing whining sound as he tries to hold in his amusement. “That’s adorable, Sam.”

“Shut up, Dean,” his brother growls into the lacquered surface. Then he jerks upright and starts yanking off Rosalind’s sensible office heels. “And I can’t walk for _shit_ in these and the only thing she had in _Keith’s_ closet was this ludicrous excuse for a skirt.” Sam manages to get both of his shoes off and he flings them against Roger’s pull-out, leather futon in the corner. Which is exactly as douchey and pretentious as a single piece of furniture can get. “So if we could find that mirror ritual you were talking about and get this whole deal over with, I’d be in a much better mood.”

Dean’s lips stretch into a subdued smile and he rubs a thumb over the ridge of his brother’s knuckles. “You think you’re up to hacking some dude’s password?”

Sam sighs and thumps his forehead onto Dean’s hand. “Of course. Why would things ever be easy?”

Dean’s about to start commiserating about their bullshit luck when Hubert comes skipping back in, fists full of coffee. He’s got a paper cup in one hand, which looks like it’s come from a nearby chain, and a ceramic kitchen mug in the other.

“Here you are, sir,” he chirps without sparing a glance for Sam. Or the hand that Dean discreetly withdraws from his brother’s fingers. “I know you said you wanted it straight from the pot, but you usually make me get it from Jojo’s. And I wasn’t sure if this was a test, so I figured I’d cover my bases and grab you one black coffee from Jojo’s, but then _also_ get you one from the pot in the break room on the seventh floor. And I will absolutely drink the one you don’t want, Mr. Hamilton. Unless you’d prefer me to throw it away. In which case, of course I’ll do that. Or if you want both, obviously, then you can have both. I mean, I know _you_ know that you can have both. But I just wanted to let you know that _I_ know you can have both. Because, of course you can. Sir.” He takes a deep, overdue breath and holds out both offerings. Then his eyes catch on Sam. “Rosalind?” Hubert jerks his gaze back up to Dean. “I am _so_ sorry, sir. I had no idea you were in a meeting. Do you need me to leave? Or would you like your coffee first?” He shakes his head forcefully, quietly berating himself. “I’m so stupid. Of course you don’t need that kind of distraction right now. I can leave, and then just keep reheating your coffee until you’re done with your meeting and ready for it. I am so sorry, Mr. Hamilton. I’ll go do that right now.”

Dean holds out a hand before the kid can twitch himself into a seizure. “Bert,” he says firmly. “It’s fine. It’s all good, man.” He calmly transfers the paper cup out of Hubert’s hand and onto his desk. “Bang-up job, dude.” He gestures at the mug with a finger. “How ‘bout you keep that one, if you want it.”

Sam mutters something under his breath about “too much caffeine already” and Dean studiously ignores him.

“Then you can go grab me a half-caff, vanilla latte. Okay?” He waits until his assistant stops looking like he’s about to keel over at his feet, then directs him out of the room with another careful, non-threatening motion. “And try not to give yourself a stroke before you get there. Huh, buddy?”

Hubert’s fingers clench and release around the dark blue mug, and he starts breathing again. “Of course, sir. Right away, sir.” Then he’s out the door like a shot.

Sam smirks to himself and raises an eyebrow at the closed door. “Kid’s quick. Think he’s got any wendigo in him?”

“Sure hope not,” Dean says. He takes a sip from his coffee and melts into the perfect liquid warmth. “I’d hate to have to gank him when it looks like he’s going places.”

His brother chuckles. “Yeah. Straight up the company ladder. _Executive_ Coffee Boy.”

Dean sinks back into his seat and rolls back a little. Just enough that Sam could squeeze by. “So how’s about it, Swordfish? Think you can crack this?”

“Yeah.” Sam pushes up from his chair and makes his way around the desk until he can see the monitor. “Just give me a little bit.”

Dean watches him tap away at the keys, awkwardly hunched over, for a few seconds. Then he pats at his thigh. “Need a seat?” he asks innocuously.

His brother’s death glare is so worth it.

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

“I don’t know why I can’t sit over there. It is _my_ desk.”

Sam barely glances up from the screen. “I am not sitting on your _lap_ , Dean.” He rolls his eyes. “For like, nine hundred reasons.”

“Too worried you’ll be taken in by my manly, virile aura?”

His brother scoffs and gives the mouse another few, frustrated clicks. “More worried about someone coming in to see Mr. Hamilton giving the business to his secretary.” Sam’s lips twitch at his own pun. “That’d be the _metaphorical_ ‘business’ in this case.”

Dean pulls a face. “Dude. He’s a rich, white guy in a swanky office building. Seeing the boss man play ‘hide the salami’ has gotta be a typical Friday afternoon for these drones.”

“Wait,” his brother blurts out. “It’s Friday?” Sam gives him a concerned glance. _Overly_ concerned. Like, worrisomely concerned.

“Uh, yeah…?” Dean makes a face. “That’s what my chauffeur said, at least. Does it matter?” Sam shakes his head (too suspiciously for it to be as nonchalant as he’s going for), so he flicks at his brother’s nearly empty coffee cup with a fingernail. “Unless you’re just trying to change the subject because you don’t want to piss off _Ken_.”

“Keith,” Sam corrects offhandedly. He drains the rest of his embarrassingly girly coffee and tosses the cup into Roger’s wastebasket. “Please tell me that you’re not jealous of some dude you’ve never even met, solely because he’s dating some other woman that you’ve never even spoken to.”

“Can’t help it,” Dean drawls. He trails his fingertips across the soft skin of Sam’s forearm. “She’s just so damn pretty.”

His brother raises an unimpressed eyebrow, but doesn’t look away from the monitor. “I’m working, Dean. Quit it.”

Dean grumbles as he retreats back across his side of the desk. “Y’know, I was much nicer to you when I was a chick.”

“That’s because you’ve got the sex drive of a teenage rabbit.” Sam suddenly jerks back with a cry of approval and smacks the side of the computer triumphantly. “Finally! _Christ_.”

“You’re in?” Dean leans bodily across the desk until he can see.

“Yeah.” His brother tosses him a sleazy look. It doesn’t suit his new face. “You wanna know what his password was?”

“I dunno.” Dean hesitates a bit at Sam’s scandalous expression. “Do I?” he asks cautiously.

“Probably not.”

“Huh.” He purses his lips. “Okay, then.” Dean scooches Sam out of his seat, then types out as much about the curse website as he can remember and starts Google surfing until he can spot something that looks familiar.

Sam stretches his arms across his chest, and Dean drags his attention away from what it’s doing to his brother’s new and shamefully enticing cleavage. “You remember any of the supplies we’re gonna need?” Sam asks, tossing Dean a neutral stare in response to his not-so-subtle ogling.

He wiggles a hand back and forth. “Vaguely. There was something about a small mirror. And there was a certain type of candle they mentioned.”

Sam runs his tongue over his bottom lip in concentration. “I might be able to find a scented candle in the bathroom. Or maybe on one of the women’s desks.”

“Nah, I remember it was something weirdly specific.” Dean clicks on a promising link, then backs out again when it isn’t what he’s looking for. “Go hunt down a mirror. I’ll keep at it until you get back.” He glances up at his brother. “But, dude. You should probably put your shoes back on.”

Sam groans and lets his head roll back dramatically. Then he pushes away from the desk and grudgingly drags himself over to where he’d thrown Rosalind’s heels. He keeps shooting Dean these deliberate little, woe-is-me looks. But that shit didn’t fly back when Sam was seven and wanted to stay up and wait for their dad to come back to the motel, and it sure as hell ain’t gonna fly now. Dean intentionally focuses his gaze on the search bar in front of him and disregards his little brother’s mini-tantrum. And once Sam seems to realize that Dean is ignoring him, he coughs and lightly kicks at the edge of the futon. “It’s not like anyone would notice, anyway,” he mutters.

“Sam, put your goddamn shoes on.” Dean finally manages to pull up the site he’d used before, and scrolls down to the appropriate passage.

His brother sighs dramatically and shuffles back to Dean’s area of the desk, half-heartedly tugging at the heels until they slip over his feet. Sam limps over to his side and rests his hip against Dean’s shoulder. “You find it?”

“Yeah,” he mutters distractedly. “But it looks like we’re also gonna need a bowl of water and some salt.” He frowns and scrolls down some more. “Oh. And the candle has to be black.”

Sam looks painfully unenthused. “What, you want me to hike over to the nearest Hot Topic?”

“The fuck is a Hot Topic?” Dean scrunches up his nose in confusion. Then his gears click into place and he brightens. “Wait, that like a porn thing?”

His brother snorts, and ignores him. “Dude, I’m not walking _anywhere_ in these things. Go send your little errand boy out for it.”

Dean rubs a thumb over his bottom lip and ponders the suggestion. “Yeah, I guess Smithers could handle that.” He stretches his palms over the fabric of his slacks. “Fine. You go find a bowl, some salt, and a mirror. Bert can get the candle. And I’ll look for the recitation we’ll need.” He slides the mouse back and clicks open a new tab, effectively hiding the simple translation on the screen. Because Dean found the entire damn ritual in the first place, while Sam was enjoying his little cat nap back in Detroit, and he’s entitled to a small reprieve. His brother can go scouting for all the stupid scavenger hunt items. Fair’s fair, after all.

Sam nods, skulking his way out the door with a metaphorical rain cloud tethered to his shoulder, and goes off in search of everything they’ll need. Dean takes a brief moment to enjoy the well-deserved peace, then calls Hubert into his office and sends him out on his new, weird quest. Dean smirks to himself. If that kid doesn’t quit by tomorrow, Roger owes him a fucking raise or something. 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

 

Dean’s jaw cracks open in an enormous yawn. He’s been sitting at his desk for almost an hour now, and the enjoyable buzz of relaxation he started with has faded into complete and utter boredom. The excruciating kind of boredom. He rubs a hand over his eyes, then starts hunting for the liquor that he knows Roger Hamilton must have stashed somewhere in his office. It’s strange. Dean’s pretty sure he slept a good five hours or so last night, so it doesn’t make sense why he still feels so exhausted.

He gets a good grip on a suspicious bit of wall paneling and manages to swing it free, revealing a hideaway with a gorgeous bottle of Blanton tucked inside. And three empty glasses, all standing at attention and waiting to be filled like the good little soldiers they are. “Got it in one,” Dean crows under his breath. “Could I be any more awesome?”

“Settle the VP debate, and you’ll get _my_ eternal admiration.” The friendly voice belongs to the jocular, portly man poking his head past Roger’s door. He seems pleasant enough to be somebody’s grandfather, but the expensive cut of his suit hints otherwise. Mystery Office Guy uses a thick hand to brush a few wisps of white hair back from his forehead, then ambles the rest of himself into the office. “You know you’re my first choice, Rog,” he says with an apologetic glint in his eye. _Sorry, straight to business. You know how it is._ Then he plucks out one of the empty tumblers and pours himself a drink like he’s right at home. “Hell. You’re the only choice, far as I’m concerned. But if you don’t get the situation sorted…” He breaks off with a sigh. “Look, Rog. The board’s already breathing down my neck as is.”

Dean nods as indulgently as possible, then sneaks a glance at the door behind the guy’s ample shoulders. Knowing his luck, Sam will waltz back into the office at the most inopportune time possible. Hopefully his brother will have the good sense to read the room before spouting off something too suspicious or incriminating. Dean clears his throat and reaches toward the bar himself. No point in abstaining if his unexpected houseguest isn’t. “Look, Mr.…”

“Oh, none of that Mr. Ellis crap. You’re basically partner now, son.” He smiles and throws Dean a wink. “If you don’t call me Malcolm, the underlings are gonna be even more terrified of me than they already are,” he says with a laugh.

“Right. Malcolm.” Dean sloshes a few slugs of bourbon into one of the glasses and tips it back all in one go. If this dude is the Ellis of Ellis & Hewitt, then Roger must be more important than Dean had even realized. He takes a second to offhandedly wonder what the guy did that was so impressive to garner the attention of the head honcho like this. “Look, I’m gonna get on all that work stuff right away,” he says. Then a smirk tugs at his lips and he can’t resist. “Hell, I bet you this entire situation will be handled by tonight.”

Malcolm drains the rest of his glass, then cheerfully claps his hands together. “Brilliant. Knew I could count on you, Rog.” He places the tumbler back in formation and gives Dean a conspiratorial nudge. “After what happened with Hewitt, I told ‘em. I told all of ‘em.” He wags an emphatic finger under Dean’s nose. “I said, ‘Hewitt’s an old bat who couldn’t tell his ass from a hole in the ground. And even if he could, he’d argue about it just for the fight itself.’” Malcolm has to break off to let out a deep belly laugh, too sold on his own humor to care whether or not ‘Roger’ is keeping up. “Said, ‘If something doesn’t happen to him soon, the bastard will run us all out of business. Mark my words.’” He sobers then, deliberately putting on a obviously rehearsed expression of solemnity. “Shame about his heart though. Anyone could have told you that I wasn’t actually serious about it. The whole board will back me up on that one. ‘Just a joke. Just one of Malcolm’s old jokes.’ No one thought he’d actually go that way.” He grins and rests a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Still. Good for you, good for me, eh?” Malcolm leaves him with a final pat to his back, then heads to the door. “And who’s to say that the company should suffer because of one, tiny, _unpreventable_ incident, right? I’ve got good feelings about you, Rog. Good feelings.” He gently shuts the door behind him, and Dean has to pour himself another glass in order to swallow a laugh.

The door swings open again and his brother comes sweeping through, arms full of their oddball ritual ingredients and a frown plastered over the entirety of his face. “Mr. Jolly out there a friend of yours?” he grumbles. “’Cause the bastard just grabbed my ass.”

Dean snorts into his bourbon. “He’s the murderer. Killed off some mucky-muck so he could replace him with me. This guy.” He tugs at his lapel. “Whatever.”

Sam dumps his ill-gotten gains over Roger’s desk. Actually, knowing Sam, they were all probably all politely asked for and borrowed with express permission. His brother wipes his hands on his skirt. “Seriously? How can you tell?”

“Practically admitted it out loud. Induced a heart attack somehow. Fucker seemed more proud of it than anything else.”

Sam fixes his gaze on the chair next to him and takes a purposeful breath. “Look, Dean—”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it.” Dean passes behind him and leaves a careless kiss against the nape of his neck. “We’re doing the ritual, not hunting bad guys. I understand.” He rolls his eyes. “Not like you’ve said it a thousand times or anything,” he mutters sarcastically.

“Wait.” Sam sounds amazed. “Really?”

“I promised, didn’t I?” Then he adds a peremptory, “Shut up,” before Sam can start weaving him daisy chains or some shit. But preventative measures aside, his brother still manages to pin him with one of his dumb, gooey looks. And as impossible as it is to believe, it’s even more simpering now that he’s got the long, girly lashes to back it up. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. You know what I mean.” Dean twitches uncomfortably at the unending stare, then growls. “Seriously, Sam. Quit it.” But his words are about as effective as a dartboard in a dark room, because Sam’s apparently still hopped up on his emotional cocktail of pre-pubescent infatuation and dewy-eyed sentimentality. Dean thunks his glass onto the wood and glares at his brother’s stupid face. “I am not afraid to hit a girl.”

Hubert chooses that exact moment to come prancing through the door, but halts in his tracks once Dean turns to glance at him. He must have caught a faceful of the residual irritation meant for Sam, because he freezes in place. And it’s just pissing Dean off more, because the kid looks like a terrified gazelle. Hell, he feels half inclined to eat the guy just on principle. “What do you want, Bert?”

Hubert lets out a strangled noise (which kind of sounds like a mouse being drowned), then holds out his prize with a trembling hand. “I got you your candle, sir,” he squeaks. “I had to go to two different occult shops to find it. Not that I’m complaining!” He holds his hands up to protect his soft underbelly. “I loved it. I’d do it again, Mr. Hamilton. Anytime. Please don’t fire me.”

“I’m not gonna fire you.” Dean holds out his fingers for the candle, calmly as possible, until the kid seems to understand that he’s not gonna rip his throat out with his teeth. “Seriously,” he says flatly. “I’m very impressed. You should probably get a promotion or something.”

Hubert almost chokes on his tongue. “W-what? Really?”

Dean sighs, and ignores his brother hiding a smile behind his hand. “Yup. First thing tomorrow. Be sure to remind me of what I said though. Sound good?”

The kid practically bows as he ducks out. Stammering his thanks and tripping over his feet with every backwards step. “Of course, Mr. Hamilton. I won’t let you down. You can count on me. I’ll be the best there ever was. I swear it.” He steps out and shuts the door after his face, but Dean’s pretty sure he can still hear faint spoutings of gratitude from the other side of the thick wood.

“I hope that doesn’t cause an issue for Mr. Moneybags tomorrow.” Sam rests his chin in his hands and gives Dean a lopsided smirk. “Hate to see what Bert looks like when he’s _upset_.”

“Well, whatever,” Dean says crisply. “Hopefully, _we_ won’t have to deal with any of it.” He organizes their spoils on the desk in front of them, then thinks better of it and locks his door first. Roger’s office sees more visitors than a whorehouse the day after Lent. Dean returns to their workspace and starts dividing out the items. “Okay, so basically what I got from the spell is that this ritual is supposed to reflect a curse.”

Sam frowns as he ponders Dean’s set-up. “So instead of breaking it or burning it or trapping it, we—what? Return to sender?”

“Yeah, basically.” He fills the little plastic bowl Sam found with ice from Roger’s bar, and sets it back on the desk. “The curse flips back on old Mxyzptlk and we’re home-free. Er, whatever. Michigan-free, I guess.”

“Isn’t Mxyzptlk the magic dude from Superman?”

“Point _being_ ,” Dean emphasizes, “we can relax. And then you can stop nagging me for the next thirty years.” He tugs the salt shaker out of his brother’s fiddling hands and unscrews the lid, sprinkling a healthy amount over the ice in the bowl. _“Capisce?”_

Sam chews at his bottom lip and tugs the end of his ponytail over his shoulder. “Dean. In order to reflect something onto someone—”

“I know.” He cuts his brother off with an imploring glance. “I know, Sammy. Just…” He sighs. “Let’s just try, okay?”

Sam nods quietly, brow furrowed, and grabs the candle out of its plastic bag. “So, am I supposed to light this?”

“Yeah. We’re supposed to hold it under the bowl until the ice melts.” Dean reaches into his back pocket for his lighter, then realizes halfway there that he’s not gonna find it in Roger’s pants. He throws Sam a look. “You think Mulan’s got a box of matches tucked up her skirt?”

His brother gives him his best ‘I’m deeply offended by that insensitive thing that you just said’ stare, and prissily rolls his shoulders. “No,” he replies dryly. “But I’ll go get a light from the creepy guy at the left corner cubicle who keeps trying to look down my shirt. He had nicotine stains on his fingernails.”

Sam heads off on his quest, and Dean takes the time to grab a legal pad and scribble down the words they’re gonna need. The spell’s in Swahili or something, and he’s probably gonna butcher most, if not all of the pronunciation. Which he hopes doesn’t change the meaning of the spell into cursing them with the pox.

His brother returns with a bright red disposable lighter, and a look of shame so intense it’s actually kind of pitiful.

“What happened? Did you let him get to second base?”

Sam’s eye twitches. “I think I might have accidentally agreed to a date. I think.” He fights back a wry smile. “He invited me to church with his mother”

“Careful, Sammy,” Dean snorts. “Wouldn’t want to upset _Kit_.”

“Keith,” Sam corrects. Then he thumbs the flame on, lights the candle, and holds it under the bowl. “Y’know, the jealousy thing was endearing for about thirty seconds.”

Dean cocks his head and grins. “Why you gotta be so cold, baby?”

His brother rolls his eyes. Hard. In fact, Dean’s pretty sure he can hear them rattling around in his sockets. “Anything else we need to do for the spell?” he asks. “Or is making my life difficult one of the actual steps?”

Dean grabs the little compact makeup mirror Sam had managed to snake, and chucks it into the bowl of mostly melted ice and salt. He swirls it a couple times with a finger, then pulls it out and flips it open. “Here, it said we’re supposed to breathe on it.” He holds the mirror up to his brother’s lips like a pair of craps dice, then lifts an eyebrow. “Blow me for luck?”

Sam chuckles despite himself, and fogs up one of the small mirrors with his breath. And he does it all slow and sensual too, just to fuck with him. Because Sam’s a cockteasing asshole. 

Dean exhales on the other mirror, less impressive without the girl mouth he’s sure, and places the compact on the ledge of the window. Then adjusts it until it’s reflecting outside. He clears his throat and squints at the crinkled paper in his hand. “Okay. _Hii uchawi,_ uh _, madhara mi_ — Uh, I mean— _mi **mi** sasa…_ "

“Oh, for the love of—” Sam plucks the paper from his fingers and rattles off the rest of the incantation without breaking a sweat. _“Yanatofautiana na. Kurudi mambo…”_

Dean stuffs his hands into his pockets and lets the unfamiliar cadence of his brother’s voice wash over him. He’s always liked the sound of Sam reading gibberish, because it usually means he doesn’t have to think too hard about anything and can let his partner-in-crime handle all of the geek stuff.

Sam finishes strong, and waits silently. He remains still for a moment, then turns to look at Dean. “That was all of it. Was something else supposed to happen?”

Dean wets his lips and tries to think of a response that won’t sound like he’s stalling. “Look, man. Maybe it just takes a little bit.” He snaps his fingers. “Maybe we need to leave it overnight.” He tries to shove as much enthusiasm into his voice as he can, but his brother reads it for the non-answer that it is. And it devastates him to see the hopelessness slide over Sam’s face.

Sam crumples the paper in his fist, then lets it fall to the carpet. “It didn’t work because there’s no one to reflect the curse on _to_.” He shakes his head reproachfully. “Muramasa’s been dead for over seven hundred years.”

“Hey, Sammy. C’mon. We knew this wasn’t something to pin our hopes to.” He lightly chuffs his brother under the chin, but Sam barely moves his head in reaction. “It was a long shot, at best. No spell's ever been that easy.” He chuckles softly. “I found it on the _internet_ , man.”

“I miss you.” The words are so quiet, it takes Dean a second to realize that Sam has even spoken. He pulls back to try and catch his brother’s eyes, but he won’t look at him. “Real you,” Sam whispers. “And I’m starting to think I’m never going to see you again.”

“Dude,” he says gently. “I’m right here. It’s me.” Dean slides his arms around Sam’s waist and pulls him down onto his lap, and onto the douchey futon-couch in the corner. “What’s with the Debbie Downer crap, huh? You gonna give up just ‘cause one crummy spell didn’t work?”

Sam butts his head into Dean’s collarbone, more out of frustration than seeking comfort, and it makes the knot of Dean’s tie dig into the base of his throat. “I don’t know what we’re supposed to do here, Dean. You want me to say I fucked up? Fine. I fucked up. We never should have done this and it’s all my fault.”

“What? That’s not what I—” He takes a breath to calm down. “Dude, I never _said_ that.”

“What are we supposed to do, Dean? Find another ritual and just hope that one works?” Sam scoffs. “Or the one after that? Or after _that?_ _Ad nauseam?”_

“Ad what?”

“Maybe the reason we’ve never come across a successful way to beat a cursed object, is because there _isn’t_ one. We are royally screwed here. You’re going to—” Sam breaks off to take a ragged breath, then seems to calm himself down through sheer force of will. “I don’t know what to do,” he admits quietly.

Dean doesn’t know what to do either. He doesn’t ever, not really. Making it up as he goes along has been the only game in town for so long, it’s basically knocked all other strategies out of his brain. Hell, ‘Close Your Eyes and Wildly Swing at What’s in Front of You’ oughta be the official Winchester motto.

So, instead of spouting off some bullshit that Sam would see through in a second, Dean wraps his arms more fully around his brother and presses a lingering kiss to the crown of his head. Sam’s just a hair smaller than him in this body, and Dean’s having vivid skin flashbacks to when Sam was sixteen and would curl into him after a particularly rough day at school. Or a difficult hunt. Or after one of his bad fights with Dad.

They’d had a ratty, run-down, old couch in one of the cabins they’d squatted in back in Lenoir City. One of those ancient, spring-based monstrosities, with torn, rust-colored fabric and stuffing leaking out of every seam. And Sam would sometimes find him there, relaxing after his afternoon shift at whatever temporary or under-the-counter employment he’d managed to pick up for the month, and he’d seat himself right in Dean’s space and huddle against his side. It was something of a rarity, even back then, when usually every other word out of his brother’s mouth was hormonal bitching and moaning. Plenty of, “I’m not a little kid anymore, Dean,” or, “Stop calling me ‘Sammy’,” or most often, “Why do you always take _his_ side?” But every once in a while, when things got too bad, Sam would slink in and silently roll himself up in Dean’s arms. And Dean would hold him there, patient and still for as long as Sammy needed, until he got up and left just as quietly as he’d come.

Dean sighs and rests his chin on his brother’s head. “We can try and drive to Lawrence,” he says. “We haven’t done that yet, and it seems like it’s our best bet.”

Sam just curls up tighter. “You said the curse would kick us.”

“Well, I don’t know.” He exhales sharply through his nose. “Please, when do I ever actually know what the hell I’m talking about?”

His brother lets out an amused scoff. “Wow, Dean Winchester admitting that he talks out of his ass? Never thought I’d see the day.”

Dean ruthlessly digs his fingers into Sam’s ribs, and tries not to think about how he’s probably leaving bruises for the poor woman to find later on. “Yeah? Well, I’d be more surprised by _Sam Winchester_ having an emo fit, if it didn’t happen every five hours.” He sighs overdramatically. “Like clockwork, little brother.”

“Your _face_ is like clockwork, asshat.”

Dean trails his fingers under the soft material of Rosalind’s blouse, then changes the subject. “Y’know, in the interest of not wasting opportunities... I just wanted to let you know that I’ve always had a very specific geisha fantasy.”

“That’s horrifyingly offensive, Dean,” Sam mumbles into his shoulder, but he sounds more entertained than anything else. “Can we please stow the Busty Asian Beauties crap?”

Dean huffs out a laugh and tucks his brother closer in to his chest. “When we get out of this, I’m gonna make you take me to the next fifty Chinese buffets we pass. It’s the only way I’ll even _consider_ you making it up to me.” He nudges Sam with a bicep. “And you’re paying by the way.”

Sam grins into his neck. “Sure thing, Dean. Next time you pick up some hustling cash, make sure to let me know. I’ll use it to treat you.”

“Wow, big spender,” Dean drawls. “I’m sure lucky I got such a keeper.

His brother stiffens in his arms, and it takes Dean a moment to realize why. He’s skated too close to the edge again. Right on the cusp of saying something too stupid and too meaningful. He swallows hard. Then he intentionally decides to ignore it and move past it, hoping Sam will do the same. Dean usually keeps a much tighter lid on that portion of his brain. Whenever he lets something like that slip, Sam starts getting ideas. Dumb, _dangerous_ ideas. And he can always tell, even when his brother doesn’t voice the thoughts aloud. It’s worse when he does though.

Sam shifts awkwardly and thins his lips. Looks like willful ignorance it is then. Great. “So, grab a car and drive to Lawrence. And hope Missouri still lives there. That’s our play?”

“Yup,” Dean says. “I’d ask my chauffeur to take us, but I’m pretty sure he said something about picking up my dry cleaning tonight.”

His brother snorts. “Wow. Driver, human calendar, _and_ laundry service. Lucky you.”

Dean frowns as something knocks around in his brain. “You said that earlier.” He leans back and lets his arms settle at Sam’s waist. “You freaked out when I told you it was Friday. What the hell was that about?”

Sam clears his throat and furrows his brow, a recognizable tell for when he wants to keep something from Dean, but then he sighs and gives in. Probably not worth the effort if there’s no good reason to lie. “It was Friday yesterday.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “No, I’m pretty sure it was Thursday yesterday. That’s how the days of the week generally work, Sammy.”

“Dude.” Sam fixes him with a steady look. “Thursday was your birthday, remember?” Dean’s brain warps a little to one side at the realization, and Sam continues. “It was Sunday when we found the sword. The 27th. And yesterday, at the police station? It was Friday then, too. Yet, all of a sudden, today’s the 25th again.” Sam screws his mouth to one side and winces a little guiltily. “I’m pretty sure the thing is jumping us to random times as well as random places. The good news is it seems to be somewhat centralized.” He tries for optimism and it’s a little painful to watch. “So far, we haven’t left the continental United States. So maybe we won’t leave this week either.” He shrugs. “It might be a localization thing. Like, the spell needs a focal point to converge on or something.”

“So it _is_ Quantum Leap,” Dean groans. “We’re time-traveling. It is _literally_ fucking Quantum Leap. Christ.”

Sam pushes his way out of Dean’s embrace and starts to pace the floor, all peppy and rejuvenated now that he’s got a plan to focus on. Like a dog with a bone in its teeth. “Okay, so we’ll deal with White Collar, then head out. No problem.”

“Wait, what?” Dean sits up, perched at the edge of the leather eyesore. “We kill Bernie Madoff over there and we’ll be kicked before we can make the drive.”

Sam jabs a perfectly manicured finger at him. “Ah, but we’re not going to kill him.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “If we ain’t gonna kill him, then how are we gonna ‘deal’ with him?”

“We’re in Connecticut, right?” Sam plants himself at Roger’s desk and taps on the spacebar a few times.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Did the vic have heart problems _before_ he was killed?”

“Dude, do you think that you’re making any sense at all? ‘Cause you’re not.” He lies back against the futon a tosses a hand over his eyes. “In fact, you’re so far away from making sense that you’d need a hot air balloon just to get back to gibberish.”

Sam continues typing away, completely unappreciative of his brilliant metaphors, then finally lifts his head to acknowledge him. “You said the guy induced a heart attack right? Any ideas about how he could slip the vic extra medication?”

Dean makes an unattractive noise. “I dunno, a million ways I guess. Asshole barged in here like he owned the place. Went straight for the liquor, too—” Dean cuts himself off as he realizes. “Son of a bitch,” he spits. “Bastard knew exactly where the bar was, even though it’s usually hidden in the wall.” He throws his brother a dry look. “How much you wanna bet Mr. Body had a similar set up in his digs?”

Sam leans back in his chair and runs his bottom lip through his teeth. “So he sprinkles a few crushed pills into the guy’s alcohol…”

Dean pushes himself to his feet, then finishes his brother’s thought. “The poor sap goes for a little hair of the dog one day—and bam. Sheer heart attack.”

His brother smirks at the reference, then replies, “Real cardiac.” And Dean can’t help but feel proud. 

Sam finally finds the info he was searching for online, and punches a few numbers into Roger’s desk phone. “Hi, I’d like to leave an anonymous tip.” He taps his fingers against the casing of the phone as he waits through the hold. And Dean is sorely tempted to work Sam over, slip his fingers up under that skirt until his brother can’t speak without breathing heavily. It’s one of his favorite phone games (although usually there’s no skirt involved), second only to violently pinching Sam during important calls to see if he’ll squawk. But pressing matters and all that. Stopping sociopaths really sucks all the fun out of life. 

His brother’s voice cuts through his contemplation. “Yes, I work at Ellis & Hewitt in Hartford. And there’s been a murder. Yes. If you check the hidden bar in the office of—” He raises his eyebrows at Dean until he silently mouths the name back. “Oh. Uh, _Hewitt’s_ office, then you’ll find evidence of medication ground into his liquor. Probably beta blockers. Yes. Yeah. Yes.” He rolls his head back impatiently. “Yes. The heart attack was induced. Yes. Um, a Mr.—” He lifts his brows again until Dean responds. “Huh. Oh, sorry. _Ellis_. Yeah, Malcolm Ellis. Yup. Of course I’ll hold.” Sam drops the phone back in its cradle. “Situation handled,” he proclaims, looking all too pleased with himself.

“I think this might be a new record, even for us.” Dean leans his hip against the desk. “Start to finish, that was what? Five hours?”

Sam smiles to himself. “Not sure it’s really sporting when the bad guy all but confesses to you, and then we let the cops do all the legwork.”

“Don’t harsh my buzz, Sammy. I’m enjoying my own awesomeness.”

His brother stands up from his chair and stretches. “Well you can ‘enjoy your own awesomeness’ in the car.” Sam pauses as he realizes what he’s just said, and holds up a preventative hand. “No, that’s not what I meant.

“ _Damn_ , baby.”

“That is not what I meant,” Sam says firmly. “Do _not_ take your dick out in the car.”

Dean laughs as he shepherds his brother out of the office. “Oh, please. Like it’d be the first time.”

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Dean gives the wire hanger in his hands another few, strong tugs, until the lock finally clicks. His slim jim is back in Baby’s trunk, and a quick detour past an employee’s desk and some makeshift metal bending had been the best he could do on such short notice.

“Well, that only took seven million years.”

“Shut your face, Sam,” he grumbles. Dean tugs the door open and leans over to unlock the passenger’s side. Then scratches at the bridge of his nose as he contemplates the steering column. “You don’t got a screwdriver on you by any chance?”

Sam scoffs and settles into the seat beside him. “Sure. Let me just grab my purse.” Then he pauses as he seems to realize something. “Wait. Oh, man.” Sam smiles incredulously. “I can’t believe I’m about to do this.”

“What?”

Sam lets out a breath in disbelief, then runs his hands through his hair and tugs at something. He gets it free with another shake of his head, and holds up a small piece of metal in front of Dean’s face. A bobby pin.

Dean barks out a laugh and snatches the accessory from his brother’s fingers. “You realizes this makes you Emma Peel, right?” he says as he attacks the screw pinning the plastic in place.

Sam leans back in his seat and ponders the statement. “Huh. You know, I’m actually okay with that.”

Dean grins as he pulls the column loose and starts tugging at the wires. “Mmm, the things I’d do to her. You remember The Avengers, Sammy?” He lets his memory drift nostalgically as he strips the casing off with his teeth. “The original, I mean.”

Sam smiles and scratches his thumbnail over his upper lip. “I remember only getting to watch the first half of every episode. You’d always make me leave the room so you could jack it to Mrs. Peel’s catsuit.” 

Dean chuckles under his breath. He’d almost forgotten that. “Now I know you’re not busting _my_ chops when you had a thing for the Bionic Woman.”

Sam makes a face. “Oh, please. Like you wouldn’t do Lindsay Wagner in a heartbeat.”

“Half-robot, Sammy.” He twists the battery wires together. “Imagine going down on that.”

His brother ignores him and stares out the window. Which is dumb, ‘cause they’re in a parking garage. “The movie was crap though. The Avengers, I mean. The first one.”

“Who cares? Uma Thurman was in it.” Dean holds out the stripped starter. “You wanna do the honors?”

Sam gives him a suspicious look. “You’re in a good mood.”

“What can I say? I’m feeling optimistic.” Sam rolls his eyes and accepts the offer, then touches the starter to the wires in Dean’s hand until the Corolla rumbles to life underneath them. Dean shoots his brother a wink. “Thanks, darlin’.”

“You actually think this is gonna work?” Looks like Dean’s good mood managed to distract his brother for all of five minutes. Sam’s back to gazing out the window now, melancholy dripping from his shoulders like brooding is second nature to him. First nature, more like.

“I don’t know, Sam,” he says frankly. “Guess we’ll find out.” Dean guides the Japanese piece of crap out of the dark garage and onto the main road. He gets them as far as the edge of downtown before Sam speaks again.

“I’m sorry.” Dean gives his brother a sideways glance. “For freaking out back at the office.” He takes a slow breath, then exhales sharply. “I guess I’m just exhausted.”

"So you keep saying." Dean raises a careful eyebrow. “You been sleeping at all?”

“Yeah, it just—” Sam goes to run a hand through his hair, then seems to realize it’s longer than usual. So he changes direction and fiddles with the bottom of his ponytail. “It feels like no matter how much I get, I’m still tired or something.”

“Yeah,” Dean says diplomatically. “Or something.”

Sam clears his throat. “I just wanted to say thanks, y’know. For…” He smiles and tilts his head instead of finishing the sentence.

Dean grabs at the hand resting beside Sam’s thigh and pulls it up to his lips. “Well, if I wasn’t watching out for your sorry ass, I’d have nothing to do all day.” He presses a quick kiss to the back of his brother’s fingers until he can feel the gloom dissipate, then he drops it back onto Sam’s leg. “Plus, lap full of hot chick? I got exactly what I wanted today.”

Sam smiles. Then his fingers clench at the hem of his skirt. “Dean,” he groans.

“No. Not a word.” Dean deliberately faces forward and pulls onto the on-ramp for Route 6.

“Dean, don’t be an idiot.”

He shakes the slight dizziness away from his brain and tightens his hands on the wheel. “Don’t be a pussy, Sam.”

“You’re gonna crash the car and kill two innocent people.” His brother closes his eyes and rubs at his temples. “This isn’t going to work.”

“Not if you keep yapping at me it won’t.” Dean bears down on the gas pedal, bringing the clunker up to 80 and streaking past the other cars on the freeway. He falters for a second, darkness creeping over his vision, but he shakes it off with only a minor swerve of the wheel.

“ _Christ_ , you’re gonna hit someone.” Sam blinks too hard, getting his bearings for a moment, then reaches for the wheel. “Pull the fuck over.”

“It’s just a barrier thing,” he grits out. “We manage to get past it, the whole thing will stop.” They receive a loud honk as the car veers slightly to the right.

Sam growls and tugs at Dean’s hands. “By what demented stretch of the imagination did you come up with that?” Sam finally bats his fingers away and yanks at the wheel, pulling them sharply off the road and onto the shoulder. He slices his hand to disconnect the wires above Dean’s lap, then slumps back into his seat as the engine cuts out.

“It would’ve worked,” Dean rasps. Sheer stubbornness and a disregard for personal safety might be the best chance they’ve got to break this thing, and Dean has both of those in spades.

“Well, let’s save dying gruesomely for when there’s absolutely no other option. Okay?” Sam's lips stretch into a weak smile. “We’ll make it our Plan C.”

Dean huffs out a laugh and wills the nausea to go away. “Pansy.” Dean spares his brother one more glance, then shuts his eyes against the unavoidable wave of darkness.

—or maybe physicists could use it if they wanted to test the sound barrier or something. Roger opens his eyes to face the imminent wrath of his wife, and jerks back once he realizes he’s sitting in a cramped, cheap-ass four-door. “What the fuck?” he mutters under his breath. Roger swivels his head around to make sense of the situation, but he seems to be pulled over next to the interstate with a lap full of chewed-up wires. Was he drugged? Is this a ransom thing? He’s influential enough now that it could be a possibility. Maybe the wires connect to some sort of bomb? 

He flicks his gaze to the side to find his secretary, unconscious in the seat beside him. “Rosalind.” He gently shakes her shoulder until she snorts awake. She gives the car a once-over with big, scared eyes, then turns to face him. “Mr. Hamilton?”

He nods his head, then catches her gaze to make sure he has her full attention. “Do you know where we are? Or what happened? I think I may have been drugged.” He swallows hard and lets out a meditative breath. “I can’t remember anything after last night.”

Rosalind frowns and furrows her brow as she racks her memory. “Oh god, me either. Sir, what happened?”

“I’m not sure.” He takes a moment to center himself. He needs to be steady, a rock, Rosalind looks up to him. Roger gives her a reassuring smile, then jolts in his seat and scrambles to get a good look at his watch. “Wait, what time is it? What _day_ is it?” He shrieks as he realizes the full extent of the situation. “I was supposed to name the new VP replacement today! The board’s expecting me in fifteen minutes. _Christ!_ Where are we?”

Rosalind grabs his shoulders and forces him to look at her. “Calm down, sir. I don’t know what happened, but I’ll get us back there. Don’t you worry.” She shuffles outside, then bundles him into her earlier seat. 

Roger would help of course, but he’s extremely focused on trying to regulate his breathing so that he doesn’t hyperventilate before his big meeting. She slides into the driver’s side and reaches for the vomited up wires in front of her. Rosalind grabs a couple (Roger couldn’t tell the difference if you paid him, but his secretary seems to have some idea of what she’s doing) and expertly touches them together until the crummy lemon actually starts.

“We’re gonna be fine, sir. Ellis & Hewitt couldn’t run without you, Mr. Hamilton.”

He takes a deep breath and calms as she pulls them back onto the road and into the correct lane. “That’s true, Rosalind.” He clears his throat. “And I do pride myself on staying in control in these situations.”

“Of course, sir.” She shifts awkwardly for a moment, then frowns at the footwell. “Mr. Hamilton, do you have any idea what happened to my shoes?”

 


	6. The Hours Drift Away

“Bitch, that guy is ridiculously hot.” 

Heather Young worries at her bottom lip with her teeth, then wraps her fingers around the mandatory tequila shot that Macy had placed in front of her and tosses it back in one go. No, seriously. _Mandatory_. Her best friend had somehow charmed it out of the male bartender with the use of some complicated and overly-lewd eyelash batting, and then had shoved it in front of her with the express instructions to “drink it or I’ll kill you in your sleep”. Heather is pretty sure that cold-blooded murder is further than even her notoriously terrifying friend is willing to go, but at the very least, Macy would probably superglue her entire underwear drawer together if she chickened out. Again. Heather waits for the burn in her throat to fade and prepares herself for the rest of the _‘helpful and supportive’_  pep talk undoubtedly coming her way. 

“...And if you don’t fuck him, I’m gonna blow him in the parking lot.” Yup, there it is. Macy blatantly swipes the cloth napkin from under the plate of their unwitting neighbor, then stretches an arm over the bar to dip it in a puddle of melted ice. “Seriously, Heather. I’m not even kidding.” She brings the napkin up to her mouth and starts moving it back and forth in exaggerated pantomime. “What am I doing?” she coos melodramatically. “Oh no. It looks like I’m wiping my lipstick off.”

“You can’t actually believe that’s going to work.” Heather is going for monotone and unimpressed, but can’t quite fight off the smile at her friend’s ridiculous antics.

“Oh no,” Macy repeats in a louder, more high-pitched voice. “I’ve only got about five minutes before I’ll be ready to blow the hot dude. Unless of course, _Heather_ goes after the guy who’s been hitting on her all night and fucks him in the bathroom.”

Heather blushes hotly, then ducks her head in an attempt to hide her face behind her hair and hisses, “No way in hell.” Macy doesn’t seem convinced in the slightest, and she gapes at the other woman’s insane expectations. “I am not gonna have sex in a bathroom,” she whispers. Well, it was probably way too loud for an actual whisper, and Heather’s pretty sure the older gentleman on her left just turned to ogle the back of her head, but it’s the intention that counts. “It’s called _class_.”

Macy scoffs and drops her napkin onto the bar, apparently already tired of her little act. “Class is for boring housewives and bitches who can’t get laid.” She clasps Heather’s hands in her own. “You are vibrant. You are hot. And you are going to give—” She pauses and furrows her brow. “What’s his name?”

Heather stares at Macy. Incredulously. Then dryly replies, “Scott.”

Macy nonchalantly waves away the judgment implicit in Heather’s voice. She’d have to be blind _and_ deaf not to catch a hint of it, but ignores it like the expert she is. “You are going to give _Scott_ the filthiest, raunchiest, most borderline-illegal lay he’s ever had in his life. Do you hear me?”

And maybe it’s the fourth tequila shot talking, but Heather is actually starting to consider it. She presses her lips tight, then brings her hand up to worriedly bite at a hangnail. “Do people do this? I mean, what if someone walks in? What if he thinks it’s weird that I suggested it?” She nervously glances up at Scott, waiting patiently in the corner. “It’s just— Is this something that people actually do? Like, in real life?”

“Oh my god, you’re adorable.” Macy tugs Heather off her stool and shoos her toward her chosen beau. Although, Heather’s not entirely sure who he was chosen by…exactly. Things get like that with Macy sometimes. “I’ll stand guard,” Macy promises reassuringly. “No one will come in or out…until he does.” She finishes her terrible pun with an over-the-top wink, then shoves Heather forward across the sawdust-covered (and yet somehow still sticky) floor.

Heather tugs at the hem of her oh-my-god-it’s-so-short-how-did-you-convince-me-to-wear-this dress as she makes her way across the room. Then smiles shyly at the man in front of her. “Um, hey. Sorry about that.” Scott chuckles indulgently and she twitches her hand back toward the bar. “My friend wanted to talk to me about something. Whatever.” She shrugs a shoulder and hopes it comes off way cooler than she feels. “It’s stupid. Doesn’t matter.” There’s a loud, over-the-top throat clearing sound from behind her and Heather bites the bullet. The very terrifying, nerve-wracking bullet that’s staring at her with its handsome, handsome face. “Um, so I was thinking…”

Scott fixes her with a good-natured grin, and his teeth practically gleam. “Thought I saw smoke,” he teases warmly.

“Ha, yeah. Good one.” Heather takes another stuttering breath and meets his eyes. _Oh fuck, why does he have to be so hot?_ “Um, but anyway,” she starts. “I was thinking maybe we could take this…into the bathroom?”

Scott looks caught off guard for a minute, but also interested beyond belief. He sweeps a hand through his dark hair and blinks excitedly. “Wow. Really?”

“Sure,” she says. As sultry as her vocal cords will allow. It comes off somewhere in between Jessica Rabbit and Don Knotts, but she’s done worse. Heather just gives him her best flirtatious lip bite to cover her bases. And she isn’t the type of girl who usually _does_ this, but it’s terrifying and it’s exciting and this guy is _so fucking hot._

The corner of Scott’s mouth tugs up in an earnest, but slightly rakish smile, and he places a hand on her lower back to steer her to the restroom door. Low lower back. Very low. Heather takes a breath. Oh wow, she’s actually going to do this. The hottest guy in the universe has his hand on her ass and she’s going to have sex in a bathroom. Like a crazy person.

Scott twists the lock behind them, and then there’s the faint, telltale click of Macy’s heels as she moves to stand guard outside. The ambiance of the restroom leans more toward chlamydia chic than Heather is used to, but then Scott is descending onto her neck like he’s been thinking about it all night. And it’s _amazing_. She nearly squeaks with how amazing it all is. Everything feels like it’s moving at the speed of light, and it’s all she can do to keep up with the dizzying array of electricity sparking along her nerve endings. Heather wraps her arms around Scott’s shoulders, and he wrenches her hips against him to hoist her up onto the chipped porcelain counter of the sink. She pulls his head down to meet her lips and— _oh my god she’s actually doing this—_ and then he pulls back to trail down her body with a gorgeously wicked smirk. Heather leans her head back against the mirror behind her as Scott reaches up under her skirt. He curls his fingers under the elastic of her sexiest black panties— _thank you Macy, I’ll never doubt you again_ —and tugs them down her legs with a pleased groan. And Heather has time to let out one, tiny gasp before Scott dives back in, burying his face in between her legs.

“Oh, fuck me,” she whispers.

Scott just hums in approval and oh god, he’s gorgeous and he’s _funny_ , and how many years of backed-up karma delivered this amazingness into her lap? Literally, _into_ her lap. Heather’s breath hitches as Scott traces his tongue up her center and…almost finds her clitoris. It’s very close. Major points for trying. She shifts a little to the side, and _there it is._ She lets out another breathy moan as he curls his tongue sinfully. And god, it feels so good and she tightens her thighs around his ears and rocks her head back and feels the moan bubbling up her throat and—

Sam blinks into awareness, then immediately chokes out a strangled cry as a bolt of hot arousal shoots directly up his body. He clamps his legs down on the…head. There’s a head in between his legs. And he’s in a bathroom. And there’s a _head_ in between his _legs_. He’s frozen now, caught between the sizzling flash of lust insistently pounding in his groin and the highly distressing situation of a complete stranger’s face jammed between his thighs. He briefly glances down through the fog swamping his brain in order to confirm that, yes, those are breasts. Which means he’s a woman, _again_ (which is completely unfair, by the way), and which also means that he’s got some random dude’s hot breath wafting over parts that he didn’t exactly have yesterday.

Well, technically he did have them _yesterday_. But not before that. Or for any of the other, previous twenty-nine years of his life. Or two hundred and nine, depending on who’s counting. _Jesus Christ._ Sam takes a deliberate breath to calm down the frantic rambling of his thoughts, and realizes that the man crouched against him hasn’t moved either. He can’t see much more than the top of the guy’s head, but he appears to be frozen in place. As still as an ice sculpture of a church mouse. So, either he fell asleep while eating this chick out (which wouldn’t be _that_ farfetched, Sam has to admit) or…

“Dean?” he tries quietly, voice thin with desperation.

The shoulders of the kneeling man relax just the slightest half-inch. And Sam wants to practically melt in relief at the thought that at least it’s his brother stuck here with him, and not some unsuspecting sap. What’s-his-face’s tongue down his throat the morning before had been all the dude experimentation Sam could take in a single week. And it’s not like this is a completely unfamiliar position for Dean to be in, even if the components are usually slightly different. Or entirely different.

“Hey, Sammy?” His brother’s voice is overly tense, like it’s taking every iota of willpower he has to remain completely motionless. Dean runs the tip of his tongue over his lips, his standard nervous gesture, but the trace of moist warmth makes him ache to buck his hips forward into Dean’s face.

Sam makes a valiant effort to answer, but the word doesn’t quite make it past his teeth, dying with a croak about halfway through. So he clears his throat and tries again. “…Yeah?” he chokes out, sounding just as wrecked as his brother.

“I know, uh—” Dean lets out a halting breath. “I know you said all that shit about ‘not our bodies’ and all…”

Sam struggles to focus on Dean’s words through the haze of pulsing want. And he thinks he’s probably getting around seventy percent. Which is more than he figured he’d be capable of, so yay for him. Go Winchester.

“But, um.” Dean swallows. Hard. And Sam can feel every tremor in his brother’s jaw, straining from holding himself completely rigid. “I’m thinking these two ain’t gonna mind so much.”

Sam breathes, slow and intentional, in order to hold back the whimper that so desperately wants to escape his throat. “Sounds like a fair assessment,” he says carefully.

Dean shifts forward, just the barest millimeter, until he’s a hair’s breadth from actually getting his lips on Sam. And the almost-pressure has Sam yearning to meet him halfway, to push past his brother’s warm breath and right up to his stupidly talented mouth. Dean’s words are slow and painstakingly deliberate. Pushing envelopes and toeing lines. “And I reckon we’ve also got kind of an unusual opportunity here.”

“Oh god,” Sam quietly groans. He pitches his head back against the cool glass behind him and screws his eyes shut. “S’pose we should take advantage,” he concedes rather magnanimously, desire slurring his words. “Y’know, for science and all.”

“Exactly,” Dean breathes. Sounding way too excited about any sentence that has the word ‘science’ in it. 

Dean inhales deeply and Sam’s entire body stiffens, turned-on from just the thought of Dean getting off on his fucking smell. Because hey, fair enough, Sam’s been there. But he’s normally on the other side of the situation. The _attached-to-a-dick_ side. And this is usually the point in the proceedings when it would perk up, hard as a fucking rock. But instead, the incessant ache just centralizes itself to a small, concentrated point. Pulsing right underneath Dean’s lips. Because _Jesus Christ_ he has a fucking _clit_ now.

His brother lets out a tiny, amused huff before continuing. “And you know me. Always willing to do my part for _science_.” Dean flicks the tip of his tongue forward, the touch playful and way too fucking fleeting. Then he whispers, sinful and smug, “Why don’t you just sit back and enjoy the ride, Sammy? I’m really good at this.”

“God, you’re such a jackass,” Sam manages to grit out, hissing as the slight wet pressure suddenly turns intense.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean mumbles around his own tongue. “Let’s see how you feel afterwards.” And then there’s no more talking for a while.

Sam’s brother has always taken great (practically _bloated)_ pride in his legendary bedroom skills. Hell, he’d been the one to give Sam ‘the talk’ one rather embarrassing and overly-detailed night, almost two decades ago. And yes, Sam had been front and center for many live demonstrations of Dean’s expertise during the following years. And yes, they actually did live up to the hype (despite how impossible and outlandish Dean’s stories seemed to become the older he got). But never in a million years did Sam figure that he’d ever be experiencing _this_ particular talent firsthand.

And for his part, Dean doesn’t hesitate for a second. He thrusts his tongue directly against Sam’s new clit— _“Remember Sammy, you’ve got to look for the little man in the boat”_ —and swirls it around the firm nub, alternating between light, teasing traces and determined, flat sweeps of his tongue. Sam’s breath hitches and he jerks back from the too-intense sensation, but Dean just wraps his arms tighter around Sam’s hips. Then he purses his lips around the delicate skin and licks, sending bolts of electricity shooting up through Sam’s torso and coaxing a strained moan out of his throat. _“It’s all about finesse, dude. You gotta know **where** to touch before anything else.”_ A few more moist strokes across the heated flesh and Sam’s hips awkwardly jerk forward as well. So he goes with it, arching his spine and digging his heels into Dean’s lower back. _“No chick’s gonna lose it for a bunch of clumsy slobbering, you got me? Like a goddam dog or something.”_ Sam gasps, and then grits his teeth against the intense spike of pleasure/pain as his brother gently sucks his clit between his teeth. Dean skillfully circles around the edges of the tip, before relaxing his jaw and twirling forward with his tongue again.

 _“And don’t be afraid to use a little muscle, man. Girls dig a strong guy.”_ Sam lets out a really pathetic whimpering sound as Dean latches his hands around the outside of his thighs and effortlessly yanks him forward even more. Until he’s hanging just off the edge of the sink, held in place only by the strength of his brother’s arms. “Jesus _fuck_ ,” Sam wheezes. He clamps his legs around Dean and gets his hands on the back of his brother’s head, threading his fingers through the thick, dark hair and pulling tight. Savoring his brother’s groan of pleasure. _“And if all else fails, you can always fall back on the old alphabet trick. It’s a total classic.”_ Dean laps his tongue out, curling and dexterous, then lets out the tiniest hint of a laugh. One small, amused exhale of breath through his nose, and Sam is positive that his brother’s idiotic sense of humor has got him spelling out something immature and stupid into Sam’s skin. He’d probably put in more effort to care if he wasn’t so focused on the sweet clench of what feels like every single one of his muscles. Sam groans and slides his hands down to grip Dean’s shoulders as the tension starts to build, curling ever tighter. And then Dean starts fucking _nuzzling_ , slick heat and a hint of teeth pressing relentlessly against his core. He stabs his tongue forward, forceful and unforgiving, until Sam is about to scream from the wanting. Blissed out and panting and straining against his brother’s hold.

 _“And it never hurts to mix it up a little. You know what I’m saying, tiger?”_ Dean suddenly drills two of his fingers directly into Sam’s pussy. And Sam comes harder and more violently than he has in a year. His head jerks back on a rough shout, voice raw and fingernails digging into his brother’s shirt. He sucks in a ragged breath and Dean’s fingers are dripping as he pumps them in and out of Sam’s fucking goddam _vagina_. Dean keeps thrusting through the aftershocks, until Sam is completely fucked out and his legs are trembling and useless. _“Trust me, Sammy. You’ll thank me when you’re older.”_

Dean graciously gives Sam a few seconds of recovery time, lifting him back up onto the counter and breathing heavily against his neck as Sam waits for full feeling to return to his extremities. “Jesus fucking Christ,” Sam whispers after a few moments, voice hoarse from the strain.

But Dean just chuckles and nips at the curve of his jaw. “And we ain’t even done yet. You ready to brace yourself?” His smile turns cocky. “…Or do you still need a few?”

“You’re such an asshole,” Sam groans. But he can’t stop the endorphin-laced smile spreading across his face.

Dean laughs again and jams his hips against Sam’s inner thigh, erection straining against the designer denim of Bathroom Guy’s jeans. “Seriously though,” he pants, “sooner would be better than later.”

Sam nods against his brother’s temple, then uses Dean’s forehead to sweep some of the long, sweat-damp hair away from his face. “Yeah,” he mumbles against his skin. “Okay.” Because anyone who says Sam Winchester is afraid of trying new things is a misinformed dickhead.

Dean lets out a relieved exhale, then goes violently scrounging around in his pockets until his hand comes back up, victoriously clutching a foil packet. Oh. Condom. Right. They almost never use them. Dean’s near _fanatical_ devotion to them during his occasional casual encounters keeps both of them pretty clean. Seriously. Dean deserves a medal for his weirdly personal, one-man crusade against unprotected sex. Sam has literally seen his brother throw a condom at the back of some random teenager’s head more times than he cares to count. 

But Sam’s current anatomy definitely introduces a few new variables to their usual situation. Especially if this girl isn’t on the pill. That's a little too Arkansas, even for them. Sam cringes internally, then shoves any and all irrational feelings of unease out of his head and focuses his attention back on his brother. Who is tearing the packet open with his teeth, probably because he thinks it makes him look dangerous and sexy. And if both of those things weren’t unfairly true, Sam’s life would be a lot easier.

Dean rolls the borrowed condom down over his borrowed dick, only struggling with his zipper for a few, fumbling moments, before gripping Sam’s hips again and ducking his head to meet his gaze. “You sure?” he asks. And the fact that Dean actually makes the effort to check, despite the blatant want still burning in Sam’s eyes, sends a thrum of easy affection through his chest.

“Not even close to the weirdest thing we’ve done,” Sam says warmly. 

“Yeah, ain’t that the truth,” his brother grumbles. He lines himself up with one hand, slings his other arm around Sam’s lower back, then throws him one last look. And Sam does his absolute best to radiate nothing other than complete anticipation until Dean slides inside with a small, breathy noise. Quick and clean and easy.

And, oh god, it feels good. _Different_ from being fucked the usual way. And even different from his earlier orgasm, but still so fucking perfect. Little thrills of lightning tingle up his core and down the muscles of his thighs and Sam groans through his teeth at the sensation, and at the sharp punch of Dean’s cock driving into him. He grabs at his brother’s face to yank him into a messy kiss, teeth clacking slightly before he can get past them to Dean’s tongue. He tastes different, even beneath the underlying tang of pussy, but Sam ignores it in favor of the plush press of his lips and the perfect, wet suction of his mouth.

Dean moans beautifully, and Sam swallows every sound until his brother has to finally pull away to breathe. He skims down Sam’s chest, apparently reluctant to break all contact, then wrenches the girl’s bra down and out of the way until he can press his lips to the soft swell of a breast. And latch onto the nipple with a sharp nip of his teeth, completely counterpoint to the gentle support of his hands around Sam’s back.

Sam lets out an embarrassingly girly-sounding whine. Which, _granted_. Circumstances. But he couldn’t help it, even if he tried. Dean’s relentless thrusting is easy and slick and _deep_ , and Sam is so fucking wet that he’s dripping over the edge of the counter and onto his inner thighs every time Dean pulls out enough to briefly slide against them.

“Fuck, Sammy.” Dean crushes Sam against his chest, and fucks his hips up harder. Faster. Less controlled. “ _Fuck_.”

And Sam is letting out a ton of little half-sounds against the sweat of Dean’s neck. They’re not exactly words, but they might almost be the beginnings of his brother’s name. Or just partially formed pleas for something he doesn’t even know how to vocalize.

Dean lets out a choked cry and slams his hips up as far as he can, straining and trembling as he jerks out a few more shallow thrusts, shooting into the condom. He takes a second to catch his breath, neck boneless and head slumped against the narrow curve of Sam’s shoulder. And Sam’s pussy starts throbbing again at the lack of friction until Dean brings up his left hand to languidly rub his thumb against the clit. Sam bucks forward and gasps as he comes. Hard. Again. Two orgasms practically on top of each other—and half-remembered flashes of being a teenager with no refractory period swim through his brain. His brother had been the cause then, as well. The only difference being that back then, he hadn’t known.

Dean presses a tender kiss that he’ll forever deny to the side of Sam’s neck, before dragging himself back up to grin at him. “So tell me, Sammy,” he drawls. “Am I a cunning linguist? Or not?”

“Oh dear god,” Sam gripes. He would dramatically roll his eyes if it didn’t feel like every single muscle in his body was useless mush.

“There’s no shame in it, you know.” Dean looks positively insufferable as his grin stretches impossibly wider. “If I rocked your world and all.”

“I’m gonna murder you as soon as I can feel my legs again.”

His brother fixes him with his extremely familiar, post-coital gaze. Even if the hooded stare is slightly different on account of the consummate parts being, well, literally _different_. But Dean refuses to let it go, never content unless he has the last word. “That should give me a couple days’ head start at least,” he says, then pushes away from the counter, leaving Sam to slump back and focus all his energy on getting his limbs to work. 

“Seriously, you’re gonna wake up dead,” Sam mumbles, not sparing the effort to open his eyes all the way.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Dean tosses over his shoulder. He strips the condom off, flinging it into the bathroom wastebasket with a wet thunk, then tucks himself in and zips up. Sam watches through lidded eyes as he settles himself in front of the mirror, preening over his latest body like he’s trying on a new suit. Dean glances over to catch his stare, and raises an cheerful eyebrow. “Not bad, huh? I mean he’s no _me_ , but not bad.”

The glossy swoop of dark hair, deep tan, and perfect teeth Dean lucked into definitely aren’t the worst things Sam’s ever seen. But the younger sibling code of honor forbids him from being sincere about it. “Yes,” he replies as acerbically as he can. “Very impressive.”

“Y’know, sarcasm’s not very becoming of a lady.” Dean slides along the sink until he can lean over him again. “Hey, Sam,” he prods, stifling an obvious snicker. “Sam.”

Sam lets out his best put-upon sigh. “What?”

 _“Oh, boy.”_ His brother lets the statement hang in the air. Then just stares at him with an expectant grin on his face.

Sam stares back, entirely nonplussed.

“What?” Dean asks, grinning. “That was my Bakula.”

“No, I got it,” Sam says slowly. “It was just terrible.”

“Oh, come on. That was hilarious.” Sam refuses to validate Dean’s awful impressions with a reply, so he remains silent until his brother starts squirming a little. “Seriously though,” Dean says, teasing gone from his voice as a small furrow of concern appears between his brows. “You good?”

Sam is three seconds away from making an allusion to Tiresias before he thinks better of it. Know your audience and all that. Plus, Sam’s mythology references have been 0 for 1 the past couple days. So instead, he just ducks under Dean’s arm and pushes away from the counter. “I’d be better if we could figure this fucking thing out.”

Dean sighs, mostly feigned. “You’re ruining my afterglow, Sam.”

“Yeah, well you can be the girl next time.” 

“Like I didn’t offer a million times,” Dean mutters under his breath.

“I’m serious, Dean.” Sam shakes his head, ignoring the distracting _wrongness_ of the hair in his peripheral vision. “I’m starting to feel like we’re pretty boned here.” There’s a vicious glint in his brother’s eye, and Sam raises a hand to cut any immature puns off at the pass. “I’m running out of ideas and it’s pissing me off.”

Dean leans back against the counter and crosses his arms over his expensive-looking blazer. He’s opening his mouth to speak, when a sharp rapping rings out from behind the bathroom door.

Sam sighs and rubs at the bridge of his nose. Right, they’re not exactly alone here. “One second,” he calls out, then pins his brother with an uncompromising stare. “As soon as we find somewhere manageable, we’re dealing with this.”

“Sure,” Dean says way too casually, then adds, “Just one more thing.” He raises a hand, black lingerie dangling from his outstretched finger. “You want these back?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Sam snatches the garment out of his brother’s hand and violently tugs them back on over his legs. He unintentionally happens to catch a glimpse of himself out of the corner of his eye while he’s dressing. The girl is pretty. Straight, sandy hair and dark eyes, nose a little too sharp to be traditionally beautiful, but altogether not bad at all. The weird, vertigo-like sensation of seeing himself as someone else still holds on tight though. “C’mon,” Sam says, forcing himself away from his reflection before Dean can catch him. The damp panties he eventually manages to wrangle on are just as uncomfortable as he thought they’d be, and he finally understands why Jess always chose to jam hers back into her purse after sex instead re-wearing them. (His encounters with Amelia had tended more toward a bedroom than anything resembling impromptu or public.) But the strip of fabric across his thighs barely passes as a dress, and Sam isn’t planning on trusting the clientele not to take advantage. And going by the rust-stained corners and scribbled graffiti along the bathroom stalls, the regulars in the main room are probably _exactly_ what he’s used to from his travels of the contiguous United States. Thanks to his brother’s relentless predilection for the _dive-iest_ of all dive bars.

Dean makes it to the door first, and gives Sam one more half-second to put himself together before he swings it open and strides out into the main bar. Probably still huffy about Sam’s ‘nose to the grindstone’ attitude, even if he’ll never admit it. Sam manages to hobble after him quickly enough that the distance between them is only slightly embarrassing. The terrifying contraptions this chick has got strapped to her feet make Rosalind’s heels from the day before pale in comparison. The fact that most women can function normally in shoes like these fills Sam with a surprising amount of respect and awe. Which is a lot more than he’d ever expected to feel about women’s fashion at all. Ever. It just isn’t something he’d ever decided to focus his concentration on (unless someone was talking _lack of_ , of course).

“ _There_ you are, you shameless hussy.” A tall woman with a short, wavy bob blocks their way to freedom. A coquettish wall of perfume solidly planted between them and the front door. Sam takes a moment to be affronted on his current body’s behalf, before she breaks into an obviously teasing smile. The bright lipstick she’s wearing is the only shade Sam has ever seen that’s redder than her actual hair. “Oh my god, Heather,” she says directly to Sam with a wicked glint in her eye. “You look like a virgin after prom.” Then her gaze flicks up to Dean and she melts. “And you must be Scott. Heather’s told me so much about you,” she purrs.

Dean takes her offered hand and smirks, probably running on complete autopilot, but enjoying the situation nonetheless. “Scott it is, then.”

The woman takes no notice of the awkward wording, flushing under his attention. “Wow. Heather must have really hit the jackpot with you, huh?”

Dean leans in, indecently close. “You should see my payout,” he flirts back unashamedly.

Sam clears his throat. Loudly. And only slightly bitterly. “Excuse me, _Scott_. But we were just heading out, weren’t we?”

The woman blinks at Sam’s interruption, then seems to remember where she is. “Oh, right. Of course.” She turns back to Sam. “Go have fun, gorgeous. You can tell me all about it later.” She fixes Dean with one last, lingering look, then adds, “In _detail_.” She gives Sam’s arm a friendly squeeze, presses a small clutch into his hand, and sashays back to the bar proper.

“That’s some kinda friend you got there, _Heather_ ,” Dean says, fervently tracking her movement across the floor.

Sam rolls his eyes and tries not to sound too pissy. “I’m not surprised you’re interested. She’s basically you in a skirt. And speaking of—” Sam ineffectually tugs at his hemline then jerks his head at the leering dudes around them. “Can we please get out of here before Jim-Bob or Otis decides to make a move?” The large majority of the bar’s patronage could be respectfully described as ‘scummy’. Only the two bartenders behind the counter (one man and one woman, both unerringly attractive), lend the space any hint of class.

“Bitch, bitch, bitch. That’s all I get from you,” Dean complains, but his smile discloses his underlying good mood. He wraps his fingers around Sam’s wrist and tugs him to the bar’s entryway. It’s a little irritatingly possessive, but also kind of sweet as far as an attempt to fix Sam’s redneck problem goes. Which, in a faintly amusing way, is kind of Dean in a nutshell.

They break away from the stifling heat and smell of stale beer nuts, and out into the cool, darkness of the outdoors. There’s a single-lane road under their feet, banked by dry grass on either side and winding off into the distance. And Sam catches a noticeable smell of dust every time the wind kicks up. “This all seems… I don’t know, kind of familiar,” he quietly muses. 

But Dean just gives him a look. “It _seems_ exactly like every other crap bar we walk out of on a weekly basis.” He slaps his hands over the pockets of his jeans and mutters, “Alright, let’s see what we’re working with.” He tugs out a wallet and skims through the cards. “Scott Erickson. Lives at 299 West 7 th St.” He lifts an eyebrow at Sam’s lassitude. “You gonna help me out any? Or do you need me to do it for you?”

Sam silently grumbles under his breath and leans his bare shoulders against the wall of the nameless bar. The crooked sign out front literally just reads ‘TAVERN’. It’s unpleasantly chilly without his usual layers, and he’s tired. It seems like he’s always tired nowadays. Sam is two seconds away from handing Dean the purse in his hands out of sheer laziness before he thinks better of it. Protecting Heather’s privacy from his brother’s borderline-chauvinistic mitts is probably worth the tiny bit of effort it’ll take to open it himself. He sifts through the usual fare before finding her wallet. “Heather Young. 448 North Gorman St.” Sam’s eyes narrow in on the tiny line of text underneath. “Hey, check this out. Blue Earth, Minnesota.” He throws Dean a triumphant look and says, “Told you everything looked familiar.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a regular savant.” Dean squints out at the flat darkness of the night. “Think we can get a cab?”

Sam follows his brother’s gaze out into the nothingness. “Dunno, it’s a pretty small town.” He shrugs. “We could just walk to your guy’s place. Can’t be that far.”

Dean sniffs and turns back to face him. “Nah, we should go to yours. The girl’s will be nicer.”

Sam is tempted to make some sort of crack at that, but it just isn’t worth it. “Alright. I think it’s farther though.”

“Good thing we’ve got all the time in the world then.” Sam jerks his eyes to Dean’s face, but he’s already turned away and headed down the road. “North on Linton, yeah?” he calls back.

“Yeah, I think so,” Sam says, and grudgingly lets the moment slide. Then follows after his brother as fast as he can in the torturous heels he’s wearing. 

After Sam’s ankle teeters for the third time in ten minutes, Dean stops in his tracks with an aggrieved sigh. “Dude, just come on already.” He bends his knees a little and holds a hand out to Sam.

“What?”

Dean looks at him like he’s being particularly idiotic today, then gestures to Sam’s feet. “You’re literally worse than useless in those things. So just c’mere already.”

Sam takes in his brother’s crouched stance, then scoffs once he realizes what Dean is offering. “No. Dude, _no_.”

Dean looks legitimately clueless. “What’s the big deal?”

“You are not giving me a fucking piggyback ride like I’m six years old or something. No way in hell.”

His brother makes a vexed sound deep in his throat. “Sam. Right now, you’re moving slower than some gomer with a walker.” He snorts. “Seriously, man. You’re actually making me want to pick you out some tennis balls for the little feeties.”

Sam can actually feel his temper surge up through the shattered remnants of his patience. “Well _you’re_ not the one who keeps getting shunted into girls,” he snaps. “It’s not like I’m fucking _choosing_ to strap torture devices to my feet on every pass.”

Dean rolls his head back in exasperation. “Dude, I _know_. That’s why I’m trying to help you, you whiny bitch.”

Sam breathes out through his nose and curses the unfairness of the universe. Dean’s argument makes perfect sense, but he still somehow manages to be singularly infuriating. How Sam ended up with such a frustrating choice for a life partner (or whatever the fuck they are), he’ll never know. Seriously, is there a word in the entire English language that encompasses all Dean is to him? Family, lover, partner, mentor, soul mate, co-worker, friend, wingman, and brother-in-arms? They’re so mixed up in every aspect of each other’s lives that it completely baffles Sam how they still consistently choose to spend every second together, even when their options are open. He has no idea how it’s possible that he constantly wants to cherish and _strangle_ his brother at the same time. Though that probably says more about him than it does about Dean.

Dean very visibly bites at the inside of his cheek to stop himself from commenting on Sam’s conspicuous silence. “It’s really not a big deal, Sammy.”

“It’s humiliating,” he grits through clenched teeth.

His brother rolls his eyes. “I promise no one will ever know. It’ll just be you, me, and your delicate ego.”

“Yeah. Insults,” Sam grumbles. “That’s the perfect way to get me to do what you want.” But he takes Dean’s extended hand as a peace offering and lets his brother heft him onto his back. Dean tucks his arms under his thighs, and Sam is silently grateful for the fact that he chose to put Heather’s underwear back on. It’s not like there’s anyone around to even notice, but with the way his dress is riding up, the lack of coverage could make this a whole different ballgame. 

Dean starts walking again, internal compass resolutely fixed on Heather Young’s home address. “Blue Earth, Minnesota,” he says. Probably attempting to get Sam’s mind off the situation. “You remember Pastor Jim’s old church?”

Sam reluctantly winds his arms around Dean’s neck, too tired to try and fend off the desire to press against his brother’s warmth. “Church of the Good Shepherd,” Sam responds automatically. Then he sighs. “Dean, we really need to talk about—”

“I know. Just—” Dean tightens his hold on Sam’s legs. “Can we just wait until we get to this chick’s place before dealing with all that shit?” He sounds just as exhausted as Sam feels. “Please?”

And Dean is quite _literally_ carrying Sam’s weight right now. So what’s a moment of acquiescence on his brother’s behalf? He feels a small smile tug at his lips as he tucks his face into the nape of Dean’s neck, away from the chill. If Dean wants to reminisce, he can reminisce. “Remember when you changed all the Latin in Pastor Jim’s hymnbooks to read ‘God is high’?”

Sam can feel Scott’s ribs contract between his thighs as Dean lets out a small chuckle. “You guys kept having your stupid secret clubhouse chats at all hours of the day. I was bored out of my skull.”

Sam’s smile curdles a little at the reminder of his earlier faith. Pastor Jim had been the one to instill religion in him in the first place. The black sheep in a family of demon-fighting atheists. Sam had just been being logical at the time, practically laughing at the irony. But now, he wishes he could have lived the rest of his days without ever finding out that he was right about God with a capital G. The thought is making him more bitter than anything else, so he steers himself back to happier topics. “You were what, twelve?”

“Thirteen, yeah. ‘Cause you were nine.” Dean twists his head back, making sure Sam is listening to his emphatic defense of his adolescent attention-seeking. “Dad wanted me to conjugate. I was conjugating.”

Sam lets out an amused breath and huddles even closer to his brother’s back, greedily stealing all of Dean’s body heat. After a while, he says, “Remember when he asked us to repaint his church door?”

Dean laughs. “If he didn’t want it to be red, he shoulda said something before we started.”

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

They make it to Heather Young’s place after forty minutes or so. Dean had only grumbled about Sam’s ass being stupidly heavy six or seven times, and only _most_ of Sam’s fingers and toes feel frozen solid. So, all in all, not the worst walk they’ve ever had. Sam manages to clamp his numb digits around the house keys Heather has in her bag, and they make it inside with relative dignity.

The small house is…well, _cozy_ is the best word Sam can come up with. It’s unassuming, but charming in its own way. There are a lot more patchwork quilts than Sam is usually fond of, spread over each surface like Heather had been trying to keep her furniture protected from the chill. A few stuffed animals regard them silently from their corners, watching the strangers with their nonjudgmental button eyes. He can see Dean’s lip curl at the décor, but a couple of girly trimmings won’t kill them for a night or two. Sam vigorously rubs his hands together for a moment, then decides to completely ignore his self-respect and drapes one of the assorted quilts over his body. “Don’t give me that face,” he says over his shoulder. “You’re the one that wanted to come here.”

“Yeah,” Dean mutters. “But that was before I knew Grandma Moses had done most of the decorating.”

“Whatever, man.” Sam wraps his blanket tighter around himself and yanks off those goddamn awful shoes. “It’s warm. Who cares?”

Dean hums as noncommittally as possible, then stalks around the edges of the room like he’s afraid Heather’s poor taste in furnishings will rub off on him if he touches anything. He sweeps his gaze over the few doors in sight, probably searching for the best candidate for a kitchen. “You think I’ve got a minute to scout for some grub?” he asks tiredly. “Or is it time for you to nag at me about the goddamn sword yet?”

Sam has to slowly bring a hand up to rub at his temples so he doesn’t fly off the handle again. He waits until he can control himself entirely before speaking. “Fine,” he snits. “Go for it. I’m exhausted anyway.” He grabs another quilt, bundles himself up as much as he can, and sets off in search of Heather’s bed. “We can deal with it in the morning,” he says, seething. Dean might have something in response, but Sam is around the corner before he can hear it. They’ve got a figurative ticking clock looming over their shoulders, and Dean can’t be bothered to give a single fuck about their imminent demise.

He finds the bedroom and shuts the door firmly behind him, collapsing onto the bed with a huff. There’s one more quilt lying underneath him, but he already has more than enough. He was planning on giving one to Dean, but Dean can go fuck himself. Yeah, help would be awesome. But Sam can figure the whole thing out on his own if he needs to. Anything to curb this whole DNR bullshit his brother’s got going on right now. Sam lets out a bitter noise and curls himself deeper into his quilts. Apparently, hunting down two-bit monsters of the week is more important than their lives.

Sam frowns into the darkness of the room, a little rattled. Maybe hunting down two-bit monsters of the week _is_ more important than their lives. He did do a shitty job of backing Dean up when he needed it in Purgatory, so this could be Sam’s karmic comeuppance or something. He runs a hand over his face. Assuming Dean was in Heaven was a stupid fucking thing for Sam to do. He should have never bet on the hope that either of them could possibly scrape together any form of peace while the universe still has a massive hate-on for their family name.

The door quietly creaks open after a few minutes, and a weak shaft of moonlight cuts through the dark and across Sam’s form. He'd pretend to be asleep, but there's no point. His brother would know in an instant. Dean doesn’t say anything at first, just closes the door with a quiet click and pads over to the bed. “Sammy, c’mon,” he coaxes. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay?” He gently tugs at one of his blankets until Sam relents and shifts to face him.

“Yeah, fine.” Sam scoots over to make room for Dean on the bed. Easier now that they’re not both over six feet. “Did you find your food?” he asks softly. He’s feeling slightly guilty about depriving his brother of dinner over one of his (unfortunately more and more frequent) exhaustion tantrums.

Dean lets out an amused exhale. “Yeah. Here,” he offers. “I found something for your whiny ass too.” He hands Sam half a sandwich, clearly haphazardly thrown together from whatever he could find in Heather’s fridge.

“Pepperoni and American cheese. Mmm, my favorite,” he hums. Then he raises a teasing eyebrow. “You do know that vegetables exist, right?”

Dean cuffs him upside the head and mutters something about Sam being an “ungrateful dick”, but there’s no heat to his words.

He munches on his foraged dinner as Dean shucks off extraneous articles of clothing. They both finish at about the same time, and Sam curls up against his brother’s side once he settles in. Sam even gives up one of his quilts to spread over Dean’s body because he’s a bullheaded martyr and won’t do it for himself. Saint Dean, patron hallow of stubbornly suffering in silence until his brother knocks some sense into him.

“We’re gonna be fine, Sam.” Dean’s voice is muted, even in the comparative silence of the room.

Sam doesn’t say anything in response. He just lays his head on Dean’s chest and curves around the rest of his frame. A pretty standard position for them in the intermittent times they happen to share a bed, but it’s much less troublesome now that Sam is physically smaller. Most of their sleeping arrangements are hindered by Dean’s insane and arbitrary refusal to approach anything even resembling a ‘little spoon’, despite Sam’s undeniably larger build. _Usually_ larger anyway. Sam lets out a sigh and glances at the bathroom door. He’d brush his teeth or wash his face or something, but it isn’t his body. And he’s finding it harder and harder to care about non-essentials like that.

“I’m serious, Sammy. We’ll be fine,” Dean repeats again. And he actually sounds like he means it this time.

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

Sam blearily stumbles his way into the living room and squints at the canned laughter coming from the television. “Are you actually watching Get Smart reruns?” 

Dean laughs around a mouthful of cereal, then reluctantly turns his attention to Sam. “What, you never heard of a guilty pleasure before?” 

“You have too many guilty pleasures, Dean. At some point, they just start becoming regular pleasures.” Sam trudges into the kitchen to try and scare up some coffee. “I’d make fun of you for only watching old shit,” he calls out, “but somehow you still manage to catch all the current stuff too.” Sam moans in relief once he sees that Dean has already started the pot. He pours himself a mug and traipses back out to his brother. “Honestly, it’s kinda looped back around from pathetic to impressive.”

They’ve been squatting in Heather’s house for just under a week now. Well, technically not _squatting_ , as her name is on the mortgage papers, and Sam has the current face to back up any claims of dissent. But their attempts at figuring some other way around the curse or ideas about new rituals to try have dwindled down to pretty much nil. 

Sam idly watches the screen as Maxwell Smart crashes headfirst into a wall. “I feel like I’m actually losing brain cells.”

Dean just yawns in response and shovels another spoonful of Captain Crunch into his mouth. And his tendency to chew with his mouth open is no more endearing in this body than it was in his old one. “I’m sorry. I didn’t quite catch that, Miss ‘I Watch Old Jeopardy Episodes When I’m Bored’.”

“Don’t,” Sam growls. “Don’t do that.”

Dean just glances at him, looking honestly confused. “What?”

Sam lets out an angry sigh and pushes himself up from the couch, mug in hand. “I’m gonna go do some more research.”

“Fine.” Dean rolls his eyes like Sam’s the one out of line. “Have fun,” he mock sings at Sam’s retreating back.

Dean’s not doing it on purpose. Sam _knows_ that he isn’t doing it on purpose. First of all, any references to Sam being a woman aren’t even remotely close to being a _new_ thing. And Dean’s typical jibes are much less subtle than a casual slip of the tongue here and there. But it’s been happening more and more recently. Sam slumps into Heather’s lone dining room chair, and tries as hard as he can _not_ to glare daggers at his brother’s profile.

They’ve fallen into a comfortable pattern here, typical behavior they usually only follow whenever they manage to get a few days off in between cases. Heather apparently works as some sort of consultant (art or graphic design or something), so there’s no office for Sam to check in with or to use up all of Heather’s sick days on. And other than a text from ‘Macy’ that read— _Enjoy your sex honeymoon ;)_ no one has called to complain. As for his brother, Dean seems to be on board with just ignoring whatever the hell Scott Erickson is supposed to be doing because he won’t be around long enough to have to deal with the consequences. Hence, the seventy-two hour TV Land marathon he’s got going on in the other room.

Sam, on the other hand, has actually been working, researching all he can about their curse problem. Dean will chip in every once in a while if Sam really needles him, but for the most part, his brother has been operating at half capacity. At best. Dean normally hits hunts with the same type of gusto he usually reserves for unhealthy food and loose women. He charges full speed ahead and leaves nothing in the tank until they’ve handled whatever needs to be handled. But this past week he’s been flighty, chiming in only when Sam nags him enough and uninterested at all other times.

But despite all that, the worst part is exactly how _not_ -bad everything has actually been. As far as Dean’s concerned, there’s nothing of importance to worry about, so he’s been relaxed and attentive and in a good mood pretty much 24/7. They go to sleep wrapped around each other every night, Dean’s been more casually affectionate than Sam’s seen him in his entire _life_ , and they’ve been fucking more often than they ever get to when they’re dealing with cases all the damn time. Hell, the most alarming part of the whole situation is the fact that Sam can see his brother slowly slipping into this life. Into these _other_ people’s lives. Wearing it like a second skin and enjoying every minute of it. At this point, Sam is almost more reluctant to pull him out of it than to leave him be. As if this shallow pretense of peace can make up for every mistake Sam’s made this past year alone, everything that he can see weighing down his brother’s body whenever he takes the time to look closely enough.

Sam bites at his lip and frowns at the laptop in front of him. He told Dean he was going to research, so he might as well start before his brother figures something’s up. Not that he’d even notice probably. But if Dean doesn’t hear the clacking of keys, he might turn around to face him, and that isn’t something Sam wants to deal with right now. He pulls the laptop open and brings up all the work he’s done so far. As little as they have to go on curse-wise, Sam’s pretty much entirely figured out their bad guy situation here in Minnesota. Far as he can tell, Blue Earth’s got itself a chedipe problem. Three men had been found in the alley behind the bar they’d woken up in, completely exsanguinated. And another two vics had popped up with the same M.O. this week alone. The coroner’s report had showed no explanatory marks other than a few, small puncture wounds on all of the victims’ toes. So all it took was a couple of key words plugged into Sam’s usual research channels, and he’d managed to slot most of the pertinent information together. A second glance at TAVERN’s interior on their website had even shown a subtle tiger motif among the cheap wall art, putting any lingering doubts he could have had about ID’ing the perp to rest.

Sam sighs and runs a hand through his too-long hair. He’s basically solved this thing and there’s absolutely no justification for him to sit on the info. If Dean found out that he was dicking around while innocent people were in danger, he’d rip him a new one. Girl body or not. But Sam’s been betting on _and_ against himself this whole week, assuming he’d be able to find some shred of info on this Masamune thing before completely figuring out the current case. Then crossing his fingers that they’d be able to handle the chedipe easily and break the curse five minutes into the next round. Sam groans and shuts the laptop again with a sharp snap. Now that he’s gone and cracked the case, he has no feasible excuse for holding off any longer.

Other than Dean, perhaps.

He tosses a quick glance to the back of his brother’s head, barely visible through the open doorway if Sam cranes his neck in just the right way. Dean’s been happier and more content lazing about Heather’s house this past week than Sam has seen him in years. He’s not sure what flipped the switch exactly. How Dean went from ‘destroy all monsters and close the gates of Hell at any personal cost’ to ‘let’s chill and fuck all day and pretend nothing disturbing is happening’ within a couple weeks, but Sam’s finding it harder and harder to care. He’s tired. Both of them are. Muramasa’s bullshit revenge from beyond the grave is sapping them of energy and inclination and who knows what else, the longer this thing goes on. Maybe that’s the second part of the curse. It kills people not only by slowly draining them, but also by removing their capacity to care that it’s doing so. Sam glances down at his now-empty coffee mug and runs a finger around the stained ring inside. Maybe he should take a page out of his brother’s book. He doesn’t have any usable info on fighting the thing, so what’s to stop them from playing into it? They can handle the cases that they’re dealt, and Sam will keep researching until something turns up. And even if they never find anything, he supposes that it’s not the worst possible way to go out. Kind of fitting, really. Family business and all that.

He drags himself up and makes his way back to the couch, conscientiously checking to make sure that his company is wanted. Dean briefly glances his way and gives him the silent all-clear, so Sam casually rests his feet on the table, nudging his brother’s empty bowl out of the way. “I may have figured out who the bad guy is here,” he says.

Dean’s jaw twitches, almost unnoticeably, before he turns to give Sam his full focus. “Yeah?” His voice is carefully impassive.

Sam purses his lips and nods a little. “Yeah. Something called a chedipe.” He flicks his eyes over to his brother, but Dean is still intentionally expressionless. The silence stretches awkwardly, so Sam continues on. “Bloodsucker from India. I think one might be dropping bodies outside of the bar we woke up in.” Dean remains uncharacteristically nonresponsive, so Sam pulls out the big guns. “The name means ‘prostitute’ in Hindi.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “And the lore says they ride _tigers_.”

Dean remains silent for a moment, then clears his throat. “Any progress on the cursed sword front?”

“Uh…” Sam picks at his fingers out of habit, reluctant to admit his lack of a breakthrough. “No. Not exactly.” He frowns at the sudden change in subject. “What about you? No interest in monster prostitutes riding jungle cats?” He gives his brother’s shoulder a playful nudge. “Figured you’d jump at the chance for a hunt.”

“No, yeah. Yeah.” Dean stares blankly at the screen. “You know me, sounds great.”

Sam considers the side of Dean’s face. “Yeah, that was real convincing.”

Dean shifts around uncomfortably and pretends to watch some commercial about dish soap for a few moments more. Then he lets out a frustrated sound and turns to look at Sam. “Is it really so bad?”

Sam’s jaw drops open before he can catch himself. “Is the systematic murder of innocent civilians for food really so bad?” he repeats slowly, positive that he must have misheard the question.

Dean scrunches his nose up for a second and jerks his gaze away. “Yeah, ‘course. Never mind.”

“Dude. _What?”_ Sam is starting to think that he might have a brain tumor, because he can’t fathom how else those words could ever have come from his brother’s mouth. He furrows his brow in confusion. “You don’t want to stop the baddie?”

“I didn’t say that,” Dean mumbles. Then he sighs and drops his head back against the couch. “I’m just saying is it really that big a deal? Y’know, in the scheme of things?” Sam is completely at a loss for words, and after a moment of silence, Dean continues. “It’s not like we can stop every single creepy-crawly, just the two of us.” He scoffs under his breath. “And it ain’t like we haven’t saved the whole fucking shebang a time or two.”

“So…” Sam trails off, still having trouble coming up with a complete sentence.

Dean twitches his shoulders a couple times and refuses to meet Sam’s stare. “It’s just— At what point is it enough? Y’know?”

“I don’t know,” Sam says hesitantly. “The gates of Hell maybe?” Dean just presses his lips into a thin line and doesn’t answer. Sam takes a deep breath, treading very carefully. “Are you saying that you want to retire?”

“No,” Dean barks adamantly. Then he scowls. “I don’t know,” he mutters. “Maybe.”

Sam doesn’t quite know what to do with this new, unexpected information. Part of him feels like he should be jumping for joy, as if some piece deep inside of Sam has been waiting for Dean to say those words his entire life. But the revelation feels…hollow. Almost empty somehow. Like Dean only means it because he’s feeling pissy at the moment. Sam stares hard at his brother’s face. “Really?”

“I’m just tired, Sammy,” Dean admits quietly, like pulling teeth. “And it’s been nice, y’know? All of _this_.” He spreads his hands to gesture vaguely around the room. “S’like a home or something. Like we’re normal.”

Sam takes in Dean’s words carefully, then slowly nudges down to scoot against his brother’s side. Dean wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him in tighter. They’re silent for a few beats, and then Sam quietly asks, “You seriously want a house?”

“I dunno. Not really.” Dean’s lips give a bittersweet tug at the corner. “I’m probably just spitballing.”

Sam hums against his brother’s shoulder and ignores the weird twinge at the center of his chest. And doesn’t say anything more. They watch the rest of Dean’s TV show just like that, twined together and silent. 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

Sam lets the scalding heat of the water sluice over his shoulders and back. He’s been feeling weirdly tentative all day, and the rhythmic pressure from the showerhead is managing to clear his mind better than any of his earlier moping around or navel-gazing had done. Dean’s bombshell of a confession had thrown Sam for more of a loop than he’d expected, and his brother hadn’t helped any by instantly clamming up afterwards. Dodging all of Sam’s subsequent attempts to bring it up and leaving no hint that he’d even said anything in the first place. Sam sighs and turns around, pushing his face into the stream. The most troubling aspect of Dean’s recent attitude is how scarily familiar it is to the little outburst he'd had back in New Jersey during the whole Leviathan thing. Sam can still remember the way he’d looked, all dead-eyed and ready to throw in the proverbial towel. And sure, a large part of it may have been the drugged sandwich talking, but Dean had been the one to actually say the words. _“I don’t even care anymore. And you know what’s even better? I don’t care that I don’t care.”_

Sam shoves the morose thoughts away with a quick shake of his head, then runs a hand up the supple, drenched curves of his new body. Even he has to admit that the one upside to all of this is that his showers have gotten exponentially more enjoyable. Averted eyes and a clinical touch, out of respect for a woman who’ll probably never even know the difference, only managed to last so long before Sam caved. He’d like to think that he did the best he could, considering the circumstances. And as long as Heather Young is never the wiser once Sam gets punted into some other poor chump, he can’t really see the harm in it. He’s got both hands cupping her rounded breasts, the slippery slick of shampoo suds gliding down his skin, when he hears the click of the bathroom door opening.

Dean takes a moment to disrobe. They'd found a few articles of men's clothing in the back of Heather's closet, brother or ex-boyfriend maybe, and Dean had apparently taken it as a sign to never leave the house. Sam would be annoyed if he wasn't enjoying it so much. The accompanying muted thump to Dean's movements reveals that he’s decided to leave his clothes wherever they happen to fall, and then he's sliding the curtain aside with a metallic scrape of the rings. He lets out a predatory rumble and closes in along Sam’s back, lips tracing down the wet skin of his neck. And Sam moans lightly in encouragement, tilting his head to the side and stepping forward to give his brother enough room to work with. Dean just presses closer in response, sliding his palm up Sam’s chest and replacing one of his hands with Dean’s own larger one. Sam leans back into his embrace and rests his head against his brother’s shoulder. The hard line of Dean’s cock is hot and insistent against his lower back, and Sam’s breath hitches when Dean slips two fingers inside of him. Parting his folds and running the pad of his fingertip across the sensitive head of his clit.

Dean chuckles hotly against his neck and crushes Sam against his chest. “Well, hey there, sweetheart,” he drawls. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

And all of a sudden, it’s like the water has turned to ice around them. Sam forcibly shoves his brother away, clipping him hard on the chin as he manages to extricate himself from Dean’s hands.

“Ow! Dude, what the fuck?” Dean is just standing there, gaping at him with confused eyes. But he can’t spare a second thought for his brother while trying to maneuver himself out of the tub without slipping and smashing his head on the tile. He finally does get free, yanking a towel from the rack with a disturbing creaking noise and far more force than necessary. Sam goes to sling it around his hips out of habit before remembering, then growls in frustration as he tugs the fabric up higher to wrap it over his chest. But Dean catches his arm in a brutal hold before he can completely clear the room. “Sam, _seriously_. What’s your friggin’ deal?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Sam wrenches his arm out of Dean’s grip, and the fact that he’s only able to do so because Dean obviously allows it, just adds to the already scorching pyre of his fury. In all actuality, he kinda wants to punch his brother in the teeth. “I’m not a fucking _chick_ , Dean!” he snarls.

“What?” His brother looks completely taken aback. “I know that.”

“Do you?” Sam swallows hard around the rage in his throat and wills himself calm. “’Cause you’re sure not acting like it.”

Dean frowns, the small crease in between his brows the only physical quirk Sam can still recognize as belonging to his actual brother. “What are you talking about?” He flicks a hand back to gesture to the still-running shower. “I didn’t mean anything by that,” he says dismissively. “You know that.”

“No, Dean. I _don’t_.” Sam exhales sharply and pushes his soaked hair away from his face. “And you keep doing shit like that,” he growls. “All the damn time.”

“Dude, sorry. Whatever.” Dean rolls his eyes and reaches back to twist off the water, conversation over.

“No.” Sam turns back to face him directly, cutting off his way to the door. “You know what? No.”

Dean lifts an eyebrow. “No what?”

“No, whatever bullshit this is.” Sam crosses his arms over his chest and spits venom. “You say you wanna stay here in this perfect, too-good-to-be-true life with this perfect, too-good-to-be-true relationship like we’re damn civilians or something. Like you can pretend that we aren’t slowly heading to a horrible death as long as we can ‘play house’ in the meantime.”

“Shut the fuck up, Sam.” Dean elbows his way past, muttering darkly and snatching the other towel off the rack to cover his flagging erection. Apparently Sam’s hit too much of a nerve for this conversation to be held naked.

“I’m not your fucking _wife_ , Dean. You want some hot little body to stick it to? You’ll have to look somewhere else.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Dean spreads his arms viciously. “When did I ever say that?”

“Wow, I don’t know,” Sam says, dripping with feigned idiocy. “How about like ten fucking hours ago?” Dean’s face darkens in pure warning, but Sam decides to go for broke anyway. “You want a house? Fine. You want to quit hunting? Great. You want to pretend we’re normal and go live in goddamn legally-authorized matrimony? Perfect! I’ll go and get a fucking notary to draw up the fake paperwork!” Sam takes a breath, partly to pull himself together, but mostly to try and pretend that he didn’t just basically propose to his older brother. He lets the sting of his fingernails digging into his palms give him a flicker of clarity, then pins Dean with a glare. “But you can’t steal these other people’s lives just ‘cause you don’t want to face reality!”

 _“Why the hell not!?”_ Dean roars. 

Sam snaps his jaw shut and speechlessly boggles at his brother’s red-faced explosion.

Dean pauses for a moment in the ringing silence, and then chokes off a bitter sound. “Seriously, Sam. Why _not?”_ He sweeps a hand to indicate the interior of the bathroom. “Give me one good reason why we can’t have a single good thing in the train wreck that is our life? Huh? One _goddamn_ reason.” The harsh ridge of Dean’s shoulders remains fixed for a few straining moments before breaking, gradually sagging under the weight of his admission. He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “Would it be so bad?” he asks quietly. “We’re pretty fucked here, Sam. And I can’t exactly see a way out. So why can’t we just stop?” Dean attempts a shrug, but his arms look like they give up about halfway through. “It’s not so terrible here, y’know? And if we do have to snuff it, spending our last moments in the lap of luxury ain’t the worst way to go.” He looks up now, pleading. “Just you and me, Sammy. C’mon, I’ll bet we’ve got a good two months or so before…” Dean slumps down onto the closed toilet seat and trails off, maybe afraid that if he finishes the sentence it’ll scare Sam away.

Sam doesn’t move for a long beat, unsure of how to handle the defeat emanating from every line of his brother’s body. And it’s scaring him. He remains motionless until the eventual chill from his still-dripping hair forces him to shiver slightly and breaks the spell. Then Sam slowly picks his way across the small space between them, giving Dean plenty of time to either run off or push him away. He brackets his brother’s legs with his own and cradles Dean’s head in his arms, letting it rest gently against his chest. When he finally speaks, his voice is weak. “This really isn’t the lap of luxury, Dean.”

Dean lets out a pathetic excuse for a laugh. “Yeah, we should have stayed in the last one. Dude had gold fucking ceilings.” He brings his own arms up to hang from Sam’s waist. “But you kept throwing such a fit about our meatsuits’ permission and all, I figured this is as close as we’re gonna get.” Sam’s reaction must be stiffer than he was expecting because Dean starts backpedaling. “Or okay, man. You’re so fucked up about being a chick, fine. We can keep going. Gank a few bad guys until we get two dudes you like enough. Whatever you want.” He sounds unsettlingly solicitous, too frantic and too desperate to be Dean Winchester. And Sam’s heart breaks that he has to turn his brother down like this.

“We can’t, Dean,” he whispers. “We can’t just steal these people’s bodies.”

Dean twists to look up at him, imploring. His eyes are wet. And if he knew, he’d never allow Sam to see them like this. “It won’t even be for forever,” he says raggedly. “They can have ‘em back soon as we croak.”

“What about Crowley? Or Kevin?” His brother falters under the guilt of what he’s saying, but Sam forces himself to continue. “What about the gates, man? We can’t just sit around with our thumbs up our asses while Kevin is target number one for any demon with a score to settle.” He cranes his neck down to rest his cheek against the crown of his brother’s head. “And we can’t stay here and fuck around while our time slowly runs out. That’s exactly what Hell would want us to do.” A small, bittersweet smile creeps over his face, almost unnoticeable. “But, hey,” he says quietly. “Once we’re done? Once we slam those gates shut as hard as we possibly can? Who knows.”

There is a tiny speck of hope that likes to live in the center of Sam’s soul. Most of the time it stays hidden under the heaps of sheer hopelessness and cruel reality and demonic hurdles that they face on a regular basis. Buried beneath the terrifying likelihood that every single good thing in Sam’s life will end up burned or bloody or dead. But every once in a while, it likes to flicker weakly. It doesn’t give off much shine, just a faint spark here or there, but it exists. And sometimes it’s the only thing Sam has to hold onto. His ‘light at the end of the tunnel’. That desperate, foolish hope that someday, maybe he’ll make it out of this. That one day there won’t be any more monsters to battle, and he can live a normal life in peace. The person standing next to him in his fantasy changes from time to time. It used to be Jess, sometimes he’s alone, and for a little while it was Amelia. But right now, it’s Dean. It’s almost always been Dean. Since Sam was old enough to know what his heart was for. And maybe he can use his pathetic, useless excuse for a light to give his brother something to hold onto too. It’s a weak shot in a dark room. But it’s a shot that’s worth a try.

For Dean, it’s worth a try.

Sam pulls back and tries to catch Dean’s gaze. “We can handle this, okay? We’ll keep hunting like you wanted, and I’ll continue to look stuff up on this Masamune thing like I wanted, and something will have to give eventually.” He throws his brother a weak smile, then says, “We can even send Kevin an email or something if you think it will help. I’m not sure if it’ll do much, considering the whole ‘can’t leave this temporal week’ thing we’ve got going on, but it can’t hurt.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dean says flatly. He won’t meet his eyes. “Sounds like a plan.” Dean gives him a small nod and Sam can see him start to close himself off, shuttering his feelings away and fortifying his walls until they’re stronger than ever. Until Sam can’t recognize anything past the detached indifference and coldness of his brother’s never-ending masks. 

And seeing it makes the already broken shards of Sam’s heart shatter even more, crushed underfoot and ground into a fine dust. He grabs at Dean’s shoulders, desperate to make his point. “Look, Dean. I don’t mean that I don’t _want_ to stay with you. It’s just the bigger picture, y’know?” And Sam can see that he’s losing him, so he tries for a Hail Mary pass. “I love houses,” he says stupidly. “Houses are great.”

But it’s no use, Dean’s got his masks firmly back in place and there’s no dislodging them. He gives Sam a suspicious glance. “Speaking of… Back there, did you ask me to—?” 

“No,” Sam answers way too quickly to be anything other than guilty. But he can only hope that the mortification he feels burning up his face isn’t giving him away. Even though he’s positive it is.

“Uh-huh,” Dean says slowly. And he sounds like he believes Sam just about as far as he can throw him, but he lets him off the hook with his dignity intact. “So,” he announces, clapping his hands. “What’s the word on this tiger whore you’ve been blabbing about?”

Sam sighs and leans back against the counter of the sink, tugging at the towel around his chest. “They’re supposed to be some sort of witch-vampire. Kinda like a shtriga, I guess.” He shrugs. “All of the attacks have been behind that one bar. And chedipes are always women, so I figure the female bartender’s our best bet. Unless there’s a woman owner that I don’t know about.”

“There was a chick bartender? How’d I miss that?”

Sam clenches his jaw and tries not to sound as irritable as he feels. “You were too busy drooling over Heather’s redhead friend.”

“Oh yeah.” Dean gaze goes a little misty at the memory. “She was a pistol, huh?”

“So,” Sam interrupts firmly. “I’m thinking consecrated iron’s our best bet.” He scratches at the back of his head. “Maybe also a machete for back-up? Just in case.”

Dean laughs, murderous spark of joy back in his eyes now that they’re taking the case. “Yeah, beheading’s a bitch of a thing to come back from.”

Sam clears his throat and adds, “Also, they only snack on men.” He then lifts a meaningful eyebrow until his brother gets it.

“So, I’m…?”

“Bait.”

“You’re a cold-hearted woman, Sam,” Dean says. Then shakes his head. “A cold-hearted woman.”

Sam doesn’t even expend the energy to glare.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“Excuse me, darlin’.” Dean leans over their intended mark and traces a flirtatious finger up her arm as Sam watches from his pre-approved hiding place at the back of the alley. They’d waited until the end of the bartender’s shift, doing their best to catch her where she’d be most likely to take the bait. Backdoor of a dark alley, late at night, no witnesses. Perfect conditions for a monster looking for a midnight snack. “What’s your name?” Dean croons into her ear, playing up his part as the scumbag patsy who’s had just a bit too much to drink. Their best guess at her perfect victim.

The bartender’s eyes flash as she locks onto the easy prey. “Well, get a load of you,” she says, voice huskier than Sam had been expecting, and tosses a perfect, dark curl over her shoulder. “Bet you’re looking for a tight cunt, huh?” She presses up brazenly against Dean’s front. And Sam can tell even from his hiding place that his brother is suddenly interested, despite himself. “Yeah, you just want someplace to keep your cock nice and warm.” She leers at Dean from under her lashes. “And _wet_.”

Dean groans as she presses him back against the opposite wall of the alley, and Sam wonders if maybe seduction is part of her charms. Monster hypnotism, or the like. Dean licks his lips as she immediately goes to town on his pants. “Yeah, baby.” He goads her on, words rough like gravel. “That’s how I like it.” Sam rolls his eyes. It would be one thing if Dean’s dirty talk was all for show, playing up the hapless horndog routine. But Sam’s been on the other end of it enough times to know that it’s sincere.

She viciously yanks his fly open. “You want me to be your whore? Huh? Your little slut?” She snaps the ‘t’, teeth gleaming white against the deep brown of her skin. “Anything you want, baby,” she purrs, then slides down lower, tugging at the laces of Scott’s sneakers.

Dean tries to shake off the haze and attempts to regain what little control he has of the situation. “You got a thing for feet?” He leers back at her with all of his typical Dean bluster. “ _Kinky_.”

Sam struggles against the urge to protect his brother from the dangerous she-beast slobbering all over his groin, but he promised himself that he’d wait until she started feeding. They don’t know for sure how similar she is to a shtriga, but better safe than stuck in an alley with a pissed off, invulnerable witch. He fiddles with the piece of cast-iron railing in his hand and waits for his opening. They hadn’t been able to find iron rounds on such short notice, so a rusty fencepost and a quick trip to the nearest chapel had been the best they could do. The machete they’d liberated from a hunting supply store is resting reassuringly at his feet as back-up.

The chedipe finally makes her way down his legs and over his de-shoed feet. Dean is entirely under her spell now, lightly weaving back and forth as she paws at his crotch. “Gonna fuck you raw, baby,” she coos. “Gonna suck you down good.” Her eyeteeth stretch into thick, white fangs in front of Sam’s eyes, and then she descends onto Dean’s toes with nothing more from him than a quiet groan. It would be utterly ridiculous if it weren’t so serious.

She continues to obliviously suckle at Dean’s feet as Sam sneaks his way up behind her. He’d thrown on the same dress that Heather had been wearing the night he’d gotten kicked here (praying that a minute or two of coherence would make up for the horror show once she realized that she’d missed a week), but he’d unconditionally refused to wear those terrifying excuses for shoes again. He’s decked out in flat canvas now, and hoping against hope that the soft sounds of his footfalls aren’t enough to distract the chedipe from her dinner. He hefts the makeshift spear in his hand as Dean lets out another soft moan from where he’s propped up against his wall. Sam plants his feet as quietly as he can, slowly raises his arm…and gets _hurled_ clear into the opposite wall as the chedipe spins around just in time to deliver a brutal blow to his solar plexus.

Sam lets out a broken groan as she stalks up to where he’s collapsed against the brick. He risks a quick glance to the other side of the alley, but Dean is still essentially unconscious. Hypnotized and completely useless. The bartender paces slowly forward, the sharp echo of her heels providing the soundtrack to Sam’s imminent doom. “So, the little bitch wants to play?” she growls through blood-spattered fangs. “The dirty skank thinks she can protect her shit-for-brains, disgusting excuse for a man?” She wrenches Sam up by the neckline of Heather’s dress and slams him back up against the wall. “They’re nothing, little dove,” she whispers into the shell of his ear, simpering. “Worthless, repulsive creatures with no thought in their heads past where they can stick their tiny pricks.”

He lets out a painful chuckle as he shifts in her grip. “Hey now,” he protests through his teeth. “That’s not very nice.” Sam squirms against the wall until he’s sure he’s got full use of his arms, then meets her gaze head-on. “And I resemble that remark.” The bartender’s eyes widen in shock as he plunges the length of rusty railing directly into her stomach. He shoves the iron through her abdomen with a snarl. Then up and behind her ribs, twisting until she lets out a final, strangled sound and chokes around the burble of blood leaking from her mouth.

Sam drops like a stone as soon as the chedipe’s arms go limp. He crashes onto the asphalt underneath him with a pained yelp, cursing as he nurses the brand-new abrasion decorating his kneecap. “Dean,” he calls out, but it’s completely ineffective. So Sam limps his way over to the rigid silhouette of his brother. “Hey.” He snaps his fingers in Dean’s ear. “Dean, c’mon.”

“Ah, fuck! _Jesus_.” Dean jolts forward, right into Sam’s face, then reels back and catches his head against the brick. He blinks until he seems to regain some awareness of the situation, then slowly sinks down along the wall and slumps into a boneless heap, looking completely fucked out. “Jesus Christ,” he pants. “I think I’m getting too old for this shit.” 

Sam laughs under his breath. “C’mon, Murtaugh. Put your shoes back on.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean breathes. Then he trails his gaze over the litany of Sam’s bruises. “You good?” Sam nods in exhaustion, but Dean just growls as he takes in the evidence saying otherwise. “No, you’re not.” Dean tugs him down to his level until he can see for himself, running his fingertips over each injury. “What’d the bitch do to you?”

“I’m fine,” Sam insists, pushing away his brother’s grabby hands. “Couple’a bruises and a scraped knee. It’s nothing.”

“Yeah, alright,” Dean says, finally giving in. He seems to be content enough with Sam’s assessment now that he’s seen everything for himself. _Dean Winchester._ Never satisfied with something until he’s got his hands all over it. He tugs again, tucking Sam against his chest and wrapping him in a full embrace. Then he grumbles, “Just give me a minute, okay?”

And any other time, after an overprotective stunt like that, Sam would push back just on sheer principle. But he’s tired, and he aches, and his brother feels really warm and safe at the moment. “Yeah, fine,” he mumbles into Dean’s collarbone. “One minute.”

They both fall asleep like that. Out like twin lights, before Sam can even catch a glimpse of the now-familiar creeping darkness—

Heather yawns and stretches against the pleasant warmth at her back. She kind of aches all over, but it’s also surprisingly satisfying. Like the burn after a good, solid workout. She rolls her shoulders with a contented hum, then finally opens her eyes. And reels back in shock once she realizes where she is. Or rather, where she _isn’t_.

“What? Huh?” the warmth says from behind her.

Heather spins around to place the voice, and comes face to face with the hot guy from the bar. What’s his name? _Scott_. Heather racks her brain. The last thing she can remember, she was in the bathroom. They both were. And her and Scott were— _Oh_. Heather flushes as she realizes what must have happened. “I am _so_ sorry,” she apologizes intently. Then tries to play it off with a laugh. Like it isn’t the single most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to her. “I must have had a little too much to drink. I didn’t throw up on you or anything, did I?” Her eyes light on the hunched form of a woman against the opposite wall, and Heather takes solace in the fact that at least she's not the only one who couldn't hold her liquor tonight.

Scott just stares at her, a little bleary-eyed. “Huh?” he says again, very eloquently.

“It’s just that my friend, Macy—you met her earlier—she kept giving me these shots, y’know? And I kept drinking them ‘cause why not, right? And I must have had too much and I’m so sorry if I did anything stupid.” Heather takes a deep breath and tries to stop rambling like a lunatic. Then she bites at her lip (hey, it worked before) and twirls a small length of hair around her finger, hoping that she hasn’t completely ruined all of her chances. “It was so nice of you to come out here with me though. Very gentlemanly.”

Scott brightens a little under the praise. “Uh, yeah,” he says warmly. “No worries.” He still looks a tiny bit confused, but covers impressively. Probably out of the goodness of his gorgeous, gorgeous heart.

Heather clears her throat. “Y’know, I don’t feel sick or anything. Really. So if you wanted to try again, I’d totally be up for that.” She holds a hand up. “If you wanted to, I mean,” she clarifies quickly.

He grins, teeth like a dentist’s wet dream. “Yeah, that sounds great.”

Heather almost chokes on her own tongue in surprise. “R-really?”

Scott raises a hand and gently brushes a tendril of hair behind her ear. “Really.”

 


	7. My Ship Isn't Coming (1)

“Hey! _Pendejo!”_

Jesse Moreno tugs at the strap of his helmet until it isn’t digging into the back of his neck, then turns to squint at his younger brother mugging for his attention. Alex lines up the fake grenade in his hand as if he’s aiming it at Jesse’s head, then pretends to lob it in his direction with an exaggerated stretch of his arm.

 _“Moreno!”_ Sergeant Palmer cuts across the rest of the recruits to roar at his brother. “This is not ‘Assholes on Ice’! If I ever catch you demonstrating improper care with a weapon again—real or fake—I will recycle your ass back to day one of training. _Do you understand me?”_

Alex immediately wilts under the drill sergeant’s rebuke. “Sir, yes, sir.” He straightens his shoulders and fixes his eyes straight ahead, not meeting the man’s stare.

“Fantastic,” Palmer says, sarcasm oozing from his words. “Now, you’re gonna go ahead and give me fifteen. Aren’t you, Moreno?”

“Sir, yes, sir.” His little brother drops to the pale, hard patch of dirt underneath their feet and proceeds to diligently chug away at his punishment.

Jesse fights off a smile and swings his head back to face the empty field that all the rest of the fuck-up recruits are chucking blanks into. He and his brother had both been pulled away from the other privates for some more ‘hands-on’ instruction on how to throw a grenade without exploding the majority of their faces off. Jesse, because his bad elbow wasn’t letting him get the distance on his tosses that the sergeant wanted, and Alex, because he couldn’t seem to stop fucking around long enough to actually throw one. Jesse raises his left arm into the proper position, then lobs the simulation grenade into the scrubby stretch of nothing in front of him. It lets off a wisp of smoke as it hits the dirt, drawing everyone’s attention to the exact landing spot.

Palmer scoffs in his ear. “Well, at least it’s on the other side of the fence, Moreno. But at this rate, we’d be better off throwing your brother at the enemy and hoping that he annoys them to death.” He leans squarely into Jesse’s space. “Now you aren’t trying to disappoint me on purpose, are you, son?”

“Sir, no, sir.”

One of the recruits to his left, an insufferable meathead named Jordan, chuckles nastily and Jesse pushes back the urge to shove one of the over-glorified Christmas ornaments down his smug throat. Palmer handles it for him, giving Jordan a withering glare until he wisely shuts up. “Now do it again,” he orders. “And this time, try not to embarrass the rest of us.”

Jesse grabs another one of the grenades from the pile at his feet and hefts the weight in his hand. He takes a moment to gleefully fantasize about being able to rub his success in Jordan’s pig face, then replies, “I’ll do my best, sir.” He pulls the pin, then lines his arm up, ignores the twinge of protest from his elbow, and heaves the thing as far as he possibly can. This time, it flies high and easy, sailing an impressive distance before rolling to a stop at the edge of the tree line with another puff of smoke. Further than any of the rest of his squadron.

“Yeah, take that!” Alex cheers from the other end of the line. “Suck it, Jordan.” He lets out a loud whistle, completely oblivious to the sergeant’s scowl at his outburst, and Jesse has to hold back a second smile at his brother’s blatant support. Palmer is three steps into Alex’s next impending punishment when he’s distracted by Jordan's plaintive whining.

“Moreno fucking did that on purpose, man.” He stretches his neck around the rest of the line until he can sneer at Jesse. “What, you pretend to suck ass until you wanna make the rest of us look bad? Like some little bitch?”

“Jordan!” Palmer barks. “Are you so insecure about your own performance that you suddenly feel the need to do my job for me?” Jordan doesn’t reply, so the sergeant whirls on him. “Answer me, Private!”

“Sir, no, sir,” he says sullenly.

“So then, are you saying that your throws are so unimpressive because your grenades are _heavier_ than everyone else’s?”

There’s a low smattering of laughter from the rest of the recruits, which Palmer silences with another harsh glare. “Well?”

“Sir, no, sir,” Jordan grits through clenched teeth.

“Moreno!” Palmer spins to face his brother. “Why don’t you come here and grab one of Jordan’s grenades?” Alex instantly perks up at the chance to fuck with Jordan, probably still intent on defending Jesse’s honor, and Jesse is torn between amused and irritated at his brother’s dogged loyalty. “Well, come on now,” Palmer drawls. “Why don’t you show us how much harder Jordan’s had it here than the rest of you?”

Alex grins from ear to ear. “My pleasure, sir.” He trots up the line and plucks a grenade from Jordan’s pile.

“Back up, son,” Palmer says to Jordan, mocking. “We’ll need to give him some room if yours are so much harder to throw. Won’t we?” Jordan reluctantly does as the sergeant asks, glowering the whole time and looking like he can’t decide which Moreno brother he’d rather throttle.

Alex yanks the fake pin out and revs up his arm like a major league pitcher. “This how you were doing it, Jordan?” Apparently, the humiliation isn’t punishment enough for him and he feels the need to poke the bear. Jesse can’t say he disagrees, but his brother’s showboating is going to direct the sergeant’s ire back onto him.

“Throw the explosive, Private,” Palmer warns. “Or I _will_ smack you upside the head.”

Alex lowers his head in mock deference and playfully tosses the grenade to his other hand. “Of course, sir. Just wanted to make sure.”

Palmer looks completely unamused. “Maybe I’ll give Jordan permission to smack you upside the head himself.”

Jordan looks unbearably pleased at that possibility, and Jesse interrupts before he’s forced to watch some asshole beat his brother’s idiotic face in. “Throw the fucking grenade, _estúpido_ ,” he calls out. “Or _I’ll_ smack you.”

Alex grins teasingly back at him, and then his hand explodes.

The flash of smoke is so absurdly unexpected that Jesse doesn’t know how to react for a moment. His brother is terrifyingly pale, the blood drained straight out of his face, and his expression stuck somewhere between pain and confusion for a quarter of a second. Time seems to stand impossibly still and Jesse can even make out the slow curl of smoke from the burned husk of his brother’s hand. Then the flurry of dust from the explosion spreads outward— _downward_ —and sets off another, larger detonation in the pile of grenades at Alex’s feet. And all of a sudden, time speeds back up. The second blast is deafening. Palmer’s got Jordan crouched beneath him for protection and the rest of the recruits have fallen into the approved ‘safe’ position, letting their vests shield them from most of the danger. But Jesse starts running closer in, trying to reach his little brother. Desperate to get to him, to protect him any way he can, eyes never leaving his face. Alex looks up to meet his gaze…and Jesse lurches sideways as his vision goes dark—

Dean forces himself awake through a haze of smoke and the ringing aftermath of some loud noise. Apparently, he’s on his back in the dirt, blearily blinking up at the bright gray sky of late January. And he’s also wearing some sort of really fucking uncomfortable helmet, so he manages to unclip the thing and yank it off his head before focusing his attention on figuring out where he and Sam are this time. Now that Dean’s ears are free, he’s able to pick up a few snippets of fragmented voices from all around him, worried chattering and moaning, people scuffling away accompanied by the heavy tread of booted feet. 

And then the screaming starts. 

Dean snaps his eyes open fully and immediately starts dragging himself toward the sound, all other thoughts seared away by the agonizing cries. _It’s Sam. It might be Sam. It has to be Sam._ He trips over himself trying to get to his feet, but finally manages to stumble to the source of the noise—a bleeding man, lying all by himself a few feet away. Dean places his hands on either side of the guy’s face and his eyes instantly flutter open, pupils rolling wildly as they seek out something to focus on. The pain-soaked gaze catches his own and locks, wet brown eyes meeting his. Tears are escaping the corners of the man’s eyes to streak down the sides of his soot-burned temples, leaving thin, shaky trails of clean skin behind them and it’s Sam _it’s Sam of course it’s Sam oh god it’s Sam._

“Dean?” he croaks through the dust. His voice is a rough whisper from the smoke around them, but more probably the screaming, and his chest is shallowly heaving under Dean’s palms. “What—?” he starts, then arches backwards with another cry as the pain seems to catch up with him again.

“Shh, you’re fine, Sammy,” he lies. “You’re gonna be fine.” Dean runs his hands over his brother’s body, chest and important parts thankfully protected by the bulletproof vest he’s wearing over his fatigues. Fatigues—they must be soldiers, and Dean’s glance briefly snags on the dusty green Velcro patch across Sam’s breastbone. _‘Moreno’._

He hesitantly trails his fingers down his brother’s arm, stopping at the drenched hem of his sleeve. Blood. _Jesus Christ_ there’s so much blood, a bright wash of red splashed over the few curled, charred-black strips of skin still clinging to the frame of Sam’s ruined left hand. Dean swallows back a broken sound and forces his attention downward, not allowing his own pathetic weakness to prevent him from assessing his brother’s injuries. The only other damage he can find is to Sam’s right shin, the tattered fabric of his pant leg soaked rust-dark and sunken in, concave against the lack of anything to fill it out. There’s a shattered flash of white,  _bone—_ Dean’s mind provides unhelpfully, but nothing else below the knee. Nothing but a coppery pool of crimson slowly seeping into the dirt.

“Dean,” Sam tries again, voice even weaker as he struggles to be heard over the gasps of his body going into shock.

“You’re all good, Sammy,” he whispers. A warm tear spatters onto his brother’s cheek, and the angle confuses Dean for a second. Because it couldn’t have come from Sam. He shoves the thought away and forces himself to smile. “Whining like a little bitch about nothing.” Dean chokes back a laugh, but it comes out sounding too wet. “It’s not even that bad, man.”

Sam takes a slow, stuttering breath and his eyes start to roll back in his head.

“Sammy, hey.” Dean cups a hand to his brother’s face, thumb smearing the wet soot under his eyes. “You gotta stay with me, man,” he pleads. Another stroke of his thumb against Sam’s unresponsive cheek. “C’mon, it’s not even that bad.” He wraps his hand around Sam’s leg, right above the knee, and squeezes, keeping a steady pressure on the blood-sticky skin. “Sammy, _c’mon_.” 

“Moreno, we’ve got it.” A stern, square-jawed man with silver hair shaved close to his skull tries to tug him away from his brother. “Moreno, _move_.” Dean growls and yanks himself away from the man’s surprisingly firm grip, but then more hands appear. Three or four guys in matching army camo pull at his arms, wrenching him out of the way and holding him secure as two soldiers with red cross patches over their chests sweep in and block Sam from view.

“Get the fuck off me,” Dean snarls. He struggles against their hold, but doesn’t have much sway when he’s outmanned like this. “Let me go. That’s my _brother_.” The medics lay Sam out on a stretcher and tote him away, silhouettes quickly disappearing over the crest of the hill. _“Let go,”_ he screams back at the commandos unforgivingly wrapped around his arms. “Let me go! _Sam!”_

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

As soon as Dean has calmed down enough to satisfy the fuckers keeping him away from his brother, they pick him up and efficiently escort him into a mud-spattered Humvee. And he only manages to restrain himself from knocking their stupid skulls together because he knows that calm cooperation will get him to Sam quicker than blind rage. However tried and true that particular reaction may be. Driving is excruciatingly slow-going compared to the helicopter they’re chasing, and the car’s frame rattles violently over each lump of packed earth under its tires. But Dean’s fingers are clenched so tightly around the support posts that he barely even notices the turbulence. 

One of the soldiers who helped manhandle him into the jeep keeps making attempts at starting a conversation, but Dean’s glassy-eyed, determined glaring seems to intimidate him into keeping his mouth shut each time he tries. He’s young for a ground pounder—recruit maybe—with dark skin and unexpectedly gentle features, even if his teeth are a little big for the rest of his face. And if Dean’s head weren’t currently on a torturously never-ending loop of _SamSamGottafindSam_ , he might have thrown the kid a bone.

The Humvee rolls to a creaking stop outside a large, blocky hospital building and Dean launches out of his seat and onto the pavement before the vehicle even stops moving. He lopes through the front doors, not full-out sprinting only because he doesn’t know where he’s going, and ignores the exasperated, “ _Christ_. Cooper, go after him, would you?” from behind him.

“Excuse me, sir?” A nurse with short, dark hair pops up in front of him. “Can I help you?”

Dean’s eyes flit around the waiting room as he tries to remember the name on Sam’s patch. “Moreno,” he grunts, then swivels his gaze back to the woman beside him. “Soldier. They choppered him in about an hour ago.”

She nods and glances down at the clipboard she’s got in her hands. “The explosion victim, right. He just got out of surgery a few minutes ago.” She startles as the same black kid from earlier comes rushing up to Dean’s side. “Um.” She blinks and checks the clipboard again. “He should be in room 707.” Dean takes off like a shot and she calls after his retreating back, “That’s E Wing, 4th floor!”

He rockets up the stairs, not willing to spare the extra second or two it would take to wait for the elevator, and Humvee kid is hot on his heels. They stomp up the narrow stairwell, the echoes thundering around them due to the heavy combat boots, and burst through the 4th floor doorway. Dean finds the room mercifully quickly and starts to head inside, with his newly acquired annoyance tailing him like a shadow. He holds a firm hand out, causing the kid to almost clothesline himself on his arm before Dean can catch him. “Look, man,” he says. “Could you just—?”

His sidekick shakes his head reproachfully and starts to apologize. “Shit. Sorry, Moreno.” He drops his head to stare at his feet. “Of course.”

Dean takes a deep breath to center himself, then leaves the other soldier behind and gently steps up to the doorway of Sam’s room. His brother’s eyes are closed—sleeping, or still unconscious from the surgery—and he looks miserably small, unnaturally still and quiet in his corner of the room. But he’s still breathing. Even from this distance, Dean can make out the gentle rise and fall of Sam’s chest under his hospital gown. His left wrist is bandaged heavily, a thick, white lump resting at his side. The soft flannel bedcovers are spread over his waist, hiding his lower half from Dean’s view…but he already knows. Dean already knows because Sam’s bandaged wrist is just that. Only his wrist.

Dean sinks back against the doorframe and closes his eyes as he tries to slow his racing heart. It’s okay. It doesn’t matter. It isn’t Sam’s real body. As soon as they get out of this, his brother will be whole again. Sam is fine. They’ll be fine.

But an insidious voice at the back of his head (one that sounds way too much like his dad) slithers up between the cracks of his weak rationalizations. _You were supposed to watch out for Sammy, Dean. You had one job. **One.** And you couldn’t even get that right, could you? _

He swallows and shoves the guilt away, forcing himself to keep his eyes open and on his brother. Now that the life-or-death panicking is over, Dean can take the time to just look. Sam is young this time. Way young. Late teens if Dean had to guess, and he’s starting to think that they’re _all_ recruits here. Some sort of training base or something. He brings his gaze back up to his brother’s profile. He looks Hispanic—tan, with a dark high and tight—and there’s a surprising softness to his face. A slight roundness to the jaw that speaks to the fact that this kid hasn’t quite grown into the rough angles of adulthood yet.

“His vitals are stable,” a Southern twang remarks from behind him, mellow like the pluck of a guitar string. Dean jerks his head over his shoulder to come face-to-face with the older crew cut from before. The man’s breathing is calm and steady, and Dean feels an irrational stab of anger over the fact that this guy just strolled on up here, cool as a fucking cucumber. Sam’s supposed to be his trainee or something. What kind of dick doesn’t give a crap about the men under his command? At least Humvee kid seemed as frantic to get to him as Dean was. The man clears his throat and rests a heavy hand on Dean’s shoulder. “You’ve seen him now, and you’ve seen that he’s okay. So go and head back to Sand Hill. We’ll let you know if anything happens.”

Dean’s vision flashes red. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He flings the guy’s hand off with a sharp twist of his shoulder. “If you think I’m going anywhere, you’re out of your goddamned mind!” His voice is way too loud for a hospital and some of the orderlies have started to glance their way, but Dean’s riding high on adrenaline and guilt right now and he can’t exactly help it.

The officer’s eyes widen at his blatant display of disobedience and his brow furrows into an unforgiving scowl. “I understand you’re a little on edge right now. But you’re in white phase, son. Which means that you do exactly what I tell you to or I’ll bounce you back to basic so fast your head will spin. Do I make myself _clear?”_ His glare is so heated that Dean half expects lasers to come shooting out of the guy’s eyes. “Back to your barracks. _Now_.”

Dean scoffs and meets the man stare-for-stare. The old, chafing at authority feeling starts to creep up his neck, and he almost smiles at the familiarity. He hasn’t felt that particular itch since he was a teenager. “I ain’t gonna do a goddamn _thing_ you tell me to,” Dean spits. “And if that pisses you off so bad, you may as well boot me outta here right now. In fact—” He spins around and stretches his arms out. “You know what? You’re gonna have to take this whole ‘respect my authority’ bullshit and shove it up your lily-white ass.” He raises his voice until the entire nurse’s station can clearly hear him. “Because I am a Grade A, certified, stamped and notarized _cockjockey!”_ He lifts an eyebrow at a passing nurse. “Oh that’s right, you heard me. Can’t get enough of those dicks. I’m gayer than Liberace at a pride parade.” Dean throws his head back and shouts, “Gay as a fucking goat! Wouldn’t know what to do with a woman if you threw one at me!” He brings his head back up to smirk into the older man’s face. “So you can go ahead and ‘Don’t Ask Don’t Tell’ me right out of your whole fucking gentlemen’s club. Or you can leave me alone,” he jerks his head back at Sam’s room, “until _he_ can tell me he’s fine himself.” He throws the guy one more sneer. “How’s that sound?”

The officer clears his throat and gives Dean the driest look he’s ever seen. “Private, I don’t care if you’re deepthroating the Atlanta Braves’ entire lineup. We haven’t had the ‘Don’t Ask Don’t Tell’ policy since 2011. Now, you wanna grab yourself an Entry Level Discharge, I will _lick_ the envelope myself. But if you ever talk to a superior officer that way again, I will personally grab you by the scruff of your neck, haul you out to the field, and make you do fitness drills until _Easter_.” He narrows his eyes and flings Dean’s words back at him. _“How’s that sound?”_

And Dean can’t do anything but stare dumbly, as the entire English language has somehow managed to get itself caught in his throat. This is definitely _not_ how he expected his little show to go and he has no idea how to move on from here. Thankfully, he’s saved from having to come up with something else by a middle-aged nurse in hot pink scrubs who wiggles in between them.

She puts a hand on either of their chests and forcefully shoves them apart. “Stop it right now, _both_ of you,” she says, another strong Southern drawl. Then she turns to personally scold Officer Douchenozzle. “What is the matter with you? How would you feel if one of your loved ones was in an accident and this child told _you_ to leave?” He goes to say something, but the nurse shushes him with a hissing sound and a quick jerk of her neck. “ _Oh_ no. Now I _know_ you aren’t thinking about talking back to _me_.”

“Ma’am,” he starts, but she shuts him up again with a snap of her fingers.

“Now you leave this poor boy alone. He’ll head back to the fort when he is good and ready, and you have my _word_ on that.”

The officer almost tries to open his mouth again, but thinks better of it. He simply tosses Dean one last glare, then gives the nurse a tight-lipped nod.

“And you,” she turns to Dean, “This is a _hospital_. You go raising your voice like that again and I will unspool an entire roll of duct tape around your head. Got it?”

Dean gapes at the terrifying woman who is quickly becoming his best friend and gives her an emphatic, “Yes, _ma’am_.” Then he throws General Dickweed a triumphant smirk over her shoulder.

And she immediately cuts through his smug look with a single raise of her eyebrow. “Now you are _terrifying_ the good people around here, looking like you just stepped out of a slaughterhouse.” Dean’s expression falters as he remembers the reason (and the donor) for the blood coating his uniform. And the nurse’s face instantly softens once she sees his shattered expression. “It’s alright now, honey,” she says soothingly. “Why don’t you head to the men’s room and I’ll bring you some clean scrubs?” She gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze and shoos the older officer away to another corner of the room with a click of her tongue. Then she turns to give Dean one more no-nonsense look over her shoulder. “If I find out you went into that boy’s room looking like that, I will send you right back to where you came from. Understood?” He nods obediently and she heads back to the nurse’s station.

Dean runs a hand over his too-short hair and turns back to face his recruit friend, who’s been standing a respectful distance away the entire time and pretending not to have overheard any of that little fiasco. He skims his eyes over the kid’s breast patch, then calls out, “Hey, uh, Cooper?” Cooper jumps to attention at his name, or maybe he's just excited that Dean’s given him permission to exist again. “I’m good here.” Dean jerks his head toward the older man. “Why don’t you go off with Gunnery Sergeant Hartman, huh?”

Cooper bites back an impressed look as he nods. “Sure thing. Whatever you need.” Then he shakes his head in astonishment. “Man, I ain’t _ever_ heard you talk to Palmer like that.”

Dean fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Bit of a stressful situation.” It’s the understatement of the century.

Cooper flushes in embarrassment. “Of course, man. Totally understandable.” He glances over Dean’s shoulder at Sam’s room. “How is baby Moreno, by the way?”

“What?”

He gives Dean a confused stare, then says, “Your brother. How is he?”

Brother. Well, that makes sense. Dean runs the last couple of hours back through his head. He’d been so frantic about Sam, he hadn’t realized that everyone had been calling both of them “Moreno”. He clears his throat and does his best to sound authoritative. “He’s, uh… _stable_ , I guess.”

Cooper nods again, optimistic. “That’s good, man. He’ll be up and pulling pranks on the nurses in no time.” He gives Dean a thousand-watt grin with his too-big teeth. “There ain’t nothing that can keep baby Moreno down, y’know?”

And Dean smiles back despite himself. At least the kid’s got some good friends around him. “Yeah. I know.”

Cooper gives him a companionable pat on the back, then turns to follow Palmer-the-asshole down the corridor and out of sight.

Dean gives Sam’s room a longing glance, but heads in the other direction toward the restrooms. He really doesn’t want to test the good nurse’s patience anymore than he already has, and he isn’t willing to find out if she’s really serious about sending him away from his brother. He slinks into the men’s room and over to the counter of sinks, then raises his head to meet the eyes of his reflection.

His guy is young too. Barely out of his teens, if that, with clearly similar features to the ones that Sam is sporting back at the other end of the hall. They’re obviously related. Close in age too. Dean’s face is a little sharper than his brother’s, a little older, but with the exact same hair and skin tone. He glances down at the patch over his blood-stained vest— _‘Moreno’_ —and wonders whether this counts as irony or not. Dean sighs. Sam would know.

The door swings open with a small squeak and the nurse from before comes gliding in. “Alright there, honey,” she says. “Why don’t you head into a stall and we’ll get you cleaned up?” Dean silently does as she asks, closing the metal door behind him and yanking his vest off as she continues on. “So, I gotta ask…” She sounds amused. “You really ‘gay as a fucking goat’? Or was that just part of your impromptu performance?”

Dean lets out an exhausted chuckle and rubs his fingers over his eyes. _Only with my brother._ He sighs and leans against the side of the stall. “No, not really,” he says tiredly. She tosses a pair of green scrubs over the partition and he starts tugging them on.

“You know, people say that the good ones always play for the other team. Nice to know they’re wrong about that. Well,” she backpedals slightly, “at least, sometimes.”

He groans as he ties the drawstring around his waist. “I’m sure you’re a firecracker, sweetheart. But you couldn’t have worse timing if you tried.”

The nurse makes a sharp, dismissive sound. “ _Please_. Like I have any interest getting into your nasty-ass drawers.”

Dean laughs and slips the shirt over his head. “Darlin’, you’re breaking my heart.”

“Uh-huh,” she says sarcastically. Then she beams as Dean unlocks the door and steps back out, teeth shining white against her mocha skin. “There we go. Now, isn’t that better?” Dean gives her a lackluster, one-armed shrug and she brings up a hand to wipe some of the grit off his face. “Sometimes all it takes is a little change to make us realize how okay everything really is.”

And all of a sudden, something snaps in Dean and he’s clutching at the poor woman in his arms. Face jammed into her shoulder and fingers digging into her back. All of his delayed fear from earlier starts rushing through his body, and as hard as he tries, he can’t quite seem to make his arms let go.

The nurse stiffens for a moment in surprise, then slowly relaxes in his hold and slides a reassuring hand up and down his back. “What’s your name, honey?”

Dean laughs because he has no fucking clue. “Moreno,” he says into her hot pink scrubs.

“Nice to officially meet you. I’m Lorraine.” She rests her cheek against the side of his head, gentle and slow. “Your brother is gonna be fine, sugar. I promise.”

“I fucked up,” he croaks into the fabric. And tries to ignore how pathetic he sounds. “I was supposed to watch out for him. This whole fucking thing is my fault.” He holds her tighter, and if it’s too much, she doesn’t complain. “He’s stubborn and he gets these stupid ideas in his head. And I let him do it,” he whispers. “And now we’re gonna be stuck like this and it’s my fault.” Dean presses his face harder into her shoulder. “I should’ve known better.”

“Honey,” Lorraine laughs, “stubborn folk are gonna be stubborn no matter what us sane people tell them.” She pulls back and waits until he catches her gaze. “But all we can do is be there for them while they’re running around like a jackass with its head on backwards.” She smiles warmly and runs the back of her fingers down his cheek. “And we can take care of them after they fall.”

Dean nods mutely and finally lets her go, then scrubs a hand over his face. “Thanks,” he chokes out.

Lorraine just smiles again, then shoos him toward the door. “Go sit with your brother. I’m gonna be watching out for you, Moreno. Don’t you worry about a thing.”

Dean gives her one last grateful glance, and steps back into the hallway. He pauses for a long moment outside the bathroom door, then heads down the corridor and into his brother’s room. All the way inside this time. He takes a seat next to Sam’s bed, slowly sinking down onto the thin cushion of the visitor’s chair, and studies his brother’s sleeping profile. Sam’s still completely out, but as long as he’s breathing, Dean will be okay. He scoots the cheap plastic chair as close as he can physically get to Sam’s bed and lightly runs a knuckle over the curve of his brother’s cheekbone. Dean smiles softly. “Heya, Sammy,” he says aloud to no one. “Hell of an entrance this time. But you should really keep that drama queen thing in check from now on.”

And Sam breathes. 

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

Dean wraps his hands around the lukewarm cup of coffee in front of him. It tastes like shit, and he really thinks that doctors should at least have better java. He’d been glued to Sam’s side for hours, barely processing everyone chattering at him about one thing or another. Doctors talking about physical therapy and adjustment periods, insurance sleazebags slinging around words like “med hold” and “deniable culpability”, and Lorraine finally sweeping through and ordering him down to the cafeteria. Dean sighs and takes another sip of terrible coffee. They’d very clearly told him that Sam— _Alex_ , actually—wouldn’t wake up from the anesthesia for another few hours, and that they’d come get him if there were any changes. 

He shoves his cup away, ignoring the bit of liquid sloshing over the rim and onto the tabletop. Dean is officially sick of this. He wants this whole bullshit curse to be over. He wants to wake up in Michigan with a brother who looks like his brother. He wants to go back to their ugly, crappy motel room and wrap himself around Sam until he’s sure that no one’s gonna steal his little brother’s limbs over some stupid seven hundred-year-old grudge match. Dean plunks his head down onto the table with a loud thump. And they still have to figure out who the psycho murderer is here in town, or Sam’s ability to load a shotgun is going to be seriously hindered. For the rest of his life. However short that may be.

Dean glances back up at his cooling paper cup. Purgatory had done wonders for his little drinking problem—it’s amazing what forced cold turkey will do for you when you’re running from bloodthirsty monsters 24/7—but Dean’s never needed a drink more than he has right at this moment. And the stupid hospital cafeteria doesn’t carry anything stronger than the shitty cup of joe he’s currently trying to burn holes into with the intensity of his glare.

“Excuse me? Mr. Moreno?” He drags his head up to lock eyes with a messy-haired, male orderly. The man smiles pleasantly. “I was told to come get you when your brother woke up?”

Dean is up and out of his seat before his brain can even give his body the command to move. “He’s awake? Right now?”

The orderly staggers back a bit at his intensity. “Yes, sir. About fifteen minutes ago.”

And Dean is heading to the stairs before the man can even finish his sentence, coffee forgotten and abandoned on the cheap veneer of the cafeteria table. 

He finally makes it back up to Sam’s room, panting like he’s just run a marathon, and finds his brother just as still as when he left him. But at least he’s awake now, and studying the tiled ceiling above his head. Sam looks resigned, and far too contemplative for Dean’s taste, so he leans a casual shoulder against the doorway and lets out a short, three-toned whistle. Low, high, and low again.

His brother almost smiles, but keeps his eyes fixed upward. Not even needing to look to know it’s him. “You know,” Sam says conversationally, “I always kinda hated M*A*S*H.”

“That’s because you have no taste, Sammy.” Dean saunters into the room and leans against the side rail on Sam’s bed.

“I think it just hit a little too close to home for me, y’know?” Sam’s voice is scratchy and dry from disuse, or the residual smoke. Or the anesthesia. Or maybe his guy just talks like that. Who knows.

Dean lets out an amused breath. “Dude, no offense, but you are _not_ Hawkeye Pierce.” He tilts his head and ponders for a moment, trying to keep the mood light. “Hot Lips, maybe…” Those very same lips twitch again in response. Still not a smile exactly, but closer than before. Dean sinks down to his elbows, trying to catch his brother’s eyes. “How you feeling?” he asks softly.

“All right,” Sam says quietly. Then he lifts up his left wrist and smirks bitterly. “Get it?”

“Christ, Sam. That’s not—” Dean bites at his lower lip. Hard. “That’s not funny, dude.”

Sam gives him a listless shrug. _What are you gonna do?_ And Dean rolls forward, suddenly filled with a fierce need to feel Sam’s skin against his own. To make sure that Sam is alive every single way he knows how. He moves to slant his mouth over his brother’s, but Sam jerks his head away at the last second. Leaving Dean frozen in midair, hovering centimeters away from his face. If anyone were to walk in right now, it would look for all the world like Dean was just whispering in Sam’s ear.

“They’re brothers,” Sam says weakly. “The doctors said—” He lets out a short sigh, then starts again. “We can’t,” he whispers. “Not with these two.”

Sam’s head is still turned away, determinedly fixed in place, so Dean pulls himself back upright. Reluctant and dissatisfied. And as a poor substitute for what he really wants to do, lightly traces a thumb down the side of Sam’s face. Right where Sam’s dimples would be, if their lives didn’t suck so hard. Dean kind of hates how much he misses them. “You know,” he says eventually, “that whole incest thing probably ain’t the best argument against.” He smiles lamely. “Considering the present company and all.”

And then Sam finally laughs. For real. Only a hint of bitterness and sorrow shading the tone. He shifts to meet Dean’s eyes and all of a sudden Dean feels like he can breathe again. Stupid lungs. His little brother should not have such an overwhelming hold on his internal organs. Sam studies him for a second, probably soaking his new face in or something equally girly, then drops his head back onto the thin pillow. “You know what day it is?” he asks wryly.

Dean sinks back into his chair, still a little too close to the bed, and leans back to cross his arms over his chest. “Does it matter?”

“It’s Thursday again. Of _last_ week.”

“Well then,” Dean says sarcastically, “Happy Birthday to me.”

Sam makes a dark sound, deep in his throat. “Yeah, Happy Birthday. I got you a crippled brother.” He awkwardly avoids Dean’s stern gaze for a little while, then seems to shake off the moment of self-pity and starts running his fingers over his bandaged wrist. “You still feel like staying here?” he asks quietly. “Letting the curse do its thing?”

Dean sighs, and looks up to study the ceiling along with Sam. Maybe he can figure out what’s got his brother so damn interested in the cheap vaulting. They’re quiet for a few minutes, in muted camaraderie, and then Dean eventually breaks the silence. “I don’t know, man. I just feel like we’re kinda running out of leads here.” He sucks at his teeth, and tries again for lighthearted. “How did Beckett get back? Don’t think I ever watched that far.”

Sam groans in annoyance and turns to give him a pleading stare. “Dude, enough with the Quantum Leap already. I’m begging you.”

Dean chuckles and says, “There’s only so much time travel shit I can draw from, Sammy.” He raises a playful eyebrow. “Would you prefer Terminator? Or I could also do Back to the Future.”

Sam laughs at that, despite himself. “Sequels included?”

He grins like a shark. “Oh, absolutely.”

Sam hums in response, but seems content to remain silent for a while, so Dean sniffs and picks up the conversation thread again. “Gotta say though, the curse seems to be doing semi-decent this time.” Sam gives him a look of wild, wide-eyed disbelief and patronizingly gestures at his missing hand. And Dean bites back a smile. “Just saying, man. One army base to another? We’re practically home already.” He winks teasingly. “Totally worth a few limbs.”

Sam finally seems to realize he’s joking and rolls his eyes with a huff. “I think we’re in Georgia, dude. Not exactly what I’d call close.” Then he grimaces and starts picking at his bandages again. “By the way, any idea who we’re after this time? I really wouldn’t mind jumping out of this one as soon as possible.”

Dean unwinds his arms and glares at his brother’s stupid fingers, and then Sam’s wrist is halfway to his lips before he realizes what he’s doing. Dean blinks. He’d just wanted his brother to stop fucking with his injury, and the urge to kiss it better is apparently his first, automatic reaction. He cuts his eyes over to glance at Sam’s expression. His brother is staring at his mouth with obvious longing, but there’s a disciplined set to his jaw that clearly says he isn’t planning on budging on the whole incest thing. So Dean lets out a breath and deliberately returns Sam’s arm to his side. Alright, so no couple stuff. Dean can do that. Hell, it’ll probably be better for him anyway, without having to deal with all of that irritating romantic mush Sam seems to love so much. He just secretly wishes that it didn’t feel so much like cutting off his own hands. Dean winces and glances at his brother. Yeah, he should definitely keep those kinds of thoughts to himself. 

He clears his throat and tries to remember what they were talking about. “Uh, yeah,” he says awkwardly. “Sorry. No idea about the bad guy on this one.” Then he adds, “Well, not yet anyway. I was kinda dealing with your sorry ass all day.” Sam gives him a tight-lipped nod and Dean cuts him off before he can do something stupid, like apologize. “We’ll figure it out though,” he says. “We always do.”

Sam looks into his eyes for an uncomfortable amount of time before turning away to sigh into his pillow. He doesn’t say a word.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Five days. Under doctor’s orders, Alejandro ‘Alex’ Moreno has to stay in bed at the Martin Army Community Hospital (connected to the Fort Benning Infantry Training Post) for five fucking days. Standard procedure for an amputation, apparently. They’d wanted to keep Sam for a full fourteen—considering the fact that he’s down not only a hand, but also a good portion of his right leg—but they’d managed to double-team Sam’s medical unit into agreeing to the shorter sentence through some good, old-fashioned Winchester perseverance. So five days it is. And it only takes three of them for Dean to become completely and utterly unimpressed with Columbus, Georgia. He’s eaten every single serving of jello they’ve brought Sam yet, caught up entirely on the telenovela the nurses keep his brother’s mini TV tuned to, and kicked Sam’s ass in hold’em, blackjack, stud, and even fucking tic-tac-toe so many times that he’s actually gotten bored of winning. Dean sighs for the millionth time in the last hour and thumps his head against the back of his chair. He’s still decked out in borrowed scrubs, as ‘Jesse Moreno’ lives at the training barracks and Dean refuses to head back there until he’s good and ready. Preferably with his brother in tow. Preferably in the most obnoxious way possible until Commander Assface feels like swallowing his own tongue.

“Dude, you’re driving me crazy.” Sam lifts an eyebrow and stares pointedly at where Dean’s been trying to balance on one leg of the crappy visitor’s chair. “Seriously, Dean. Just go and do something.” He lets out a put-upon sigh and rubs at his eyes. “Anywhere. Anywhere that isn’t _here_.” He’d somehow managed to finagle a laptop from one of the nurses and is currently clicking away at the keyboard propped against his good thigh. Dean had figured that he’d be neck deep in curse research the first chance he got, but instead, Sam is spending most of his time looking into unusual deaths and accidents around the area. Standard fare, really.

Dean lets his chair fall back down onto the linoleum with a loud thwack and tosses his brother a grin. “Aw, Sammy. You’re hurting my feelings.” He thumps a facetious hand over his heart. “You saying you don’t want me around?”

“You should really do as he asks,” comes a warbling voice from the other side of the room. And Dean and Sam both sigh in unison. Sam had been blessed with a roommate only one day into his stay, and no matter how many times they keep the curtain drawn between the two beds, Mr. Chatty-freaking-Cathy never seems to get the hint. Sam’s roommate clears his throat obnoxiously. “It’s up to the patient whether or not he feels up to taking visitors,” he informs them, ever so helpful. “You should respect his healing process.”

And Sam apparently can’t help but be pleased that, irritating or not, the guy’s taking his side. So, in a fit of sibling pique, Dean decides to give him exactly what he wants. Dean tugs the curtain wide open to welcome the scrawny fucker into their conversation, and heaves himself to his feet. “You are absolutely right, buddy.” He pats the man’s leg a couple of times and shoots Sam a wicked glance. And savors the look of growing trepidation on his brother’s face. “I’m gonna head out right now, just like you said.” He takes a few steps to the door and then right at the exit, melodramatically halts in his tracks, milking it for all he’s worth. “You know,” he says jovially, spinning on his heel and snapping his fingers, “why don’t you tell my brother all about the history of this hospital here? I know he was so excited about that Civil War lecture you gave him yesterday.” Sam looks like he’s trying to murder Dean solely with his eyeballs, so Dean pushes it even further. “You know you were,” he coos. Then he winks at Sam’s roommate, clandestine. “Wouldn’t shut up about it to tell you the truth.”

“You know what?” Sam grits through his teeth. “On second thought, I think I’d prefer you to stay. To help with my _healing process_ and all.”

“Nah.” Dean raises a selfless hand, and does his best not to break into derisive laughter. “I’ll leave you alone. You kids have fun.”

Sam’s roommate lights up like a kid on Christmas and immediately launches a diatribe in Sam’s general direction. “Well, Fort Benning was officially established in 1918. But interestingly enough, the original hospitalization of the post’s population was set up within the limits of the camp itself…”

Dean chuckles and finally splits for real, taking one brief moment to bask in the image of his brother’s strained, polite nodding. He takes off down the hallway and makes a beeline for the door to the exterior exit on this floor. He strolls past the nurse’s station, giving Lorraine a polite wave as he passes, and makes his way out into the brisk evening air. There’s a wraparound balcony on this entire side of the building, but no one seems to ever use it except for the occasional smoke break. And it’s surprisingly soothing being on his own in the dark up here. 

Dean steps up to the edge of the mesh siding and curls his hands around the metal rail, ignoring the cold biting into his palms. There’s almost no city lights visible from the back view of the hospital, and Dean takes a long stretch of time to just admire the landscape. It’s mostly parking lots and pavement for the first few yards. But after that, it’s just miles upon miles of dark green forest, bits of scrubland popping up here and there between the round tops of the trees. Dean sighs and leans a little further over the railing. There’s a river or something a little farther off, and he can hear the faint rush of water even from here.

“I guess it’s not the worst view I’ve ever seen,” he says under his breath, a cold breeze sweeping through and carrying the words away. And for a moment or two, he’s not even sure who he’s talking to. “But you like that nature shit. Don’t you, Cas?” He sighs and rolls the cricks out of his neck, then says, “Yeah. Sammy too. Not sure I ever got the appeal.” Dean runs his bottom lip through his teeth—a nervous habit he’s had as long as he can remember—and finally gives in, tilting his head skyward. “Alright, you son of a bitch. This is me praying,” he says. “The _official_ way. You happy? That what you’ve been waiting for?” Nothing but silence echoes back, but Dean keeps his eyes pointed up anyway. “Sammy needs your help, Cas. C’mon, buddy. He—” Dean cuts himself off and lets out a defeated breath. “ _I_ need your help. We could really use some angel mojo to pull us outta this one.” Still nothing, so Dean caves and grudgingly lets go of the final scraps of his pride. “Please,” he quietly begs the stars. “ _Please_.” They twinkle back silently.

“This the first time?”

Dean cuts his head back to find Sam, propped up against the exterior doorway and keeping himself upright on the single crutch the doctors gave him to practice with. He looks lopsided, silhouetted against the light from the hall like that, and Dean swallows down the sour taste of guilt. His brother studies his face for another quiet moment, then repeats himself. “Is this the first time you…?”

“Shot a mayday up through AngelFM?” Dean shakes his head with a bitter snort. “Nah. Tried it back in Detroit, while you were at the police station.” He glares up at the night sky. “No answer then, either.” Sam hops up beside him and Dean smothers down the urge to try and help. If he even made a move, Sam would shoot him a dirty glare at best. Probably shove him off the balcony at worst. Dean’s lips quirk up. Actually, that might make things fairer. Sam manages to get up beside him eventually, wrapping his right arm around the rail and leaning his left shoulder against Dean’s. It feels nice. Warm and familiar against the rest of the night’s chill. Dean glances down to take in his brother’s bare hand and says, “You know you’re supposed to keep your IV in right? Pretty sure the doctors insist on that.” Sam shrugs indifferently. So Dean changes the subject. “How you doing, Anakin?” he asks with a smirk and a nudge.

Sam chuckles quietly and Dean feels relieved that his off-color joke didn’t fuck anything up. “Well, I am missing an arm and a leg,” he says. “But hey, I’ve got a dick again.” His mouth twists ironically. “Thank god for small favors.”

Dean doesn’t really feel like continuing that particular conversation track, so instead he just pushes his shoulder a little more firmly against his brother’s. “What about you?” he asks. “You send out an S.O.S. through Castiel Express yet?”

Sam tosses him a quick, pained smile, then turns back out to study the view. “Cas doesn’t usually answer me.” 

Dean rolls his eyes and groans. “Yeah? Welcome to the club.”

Sam furrows his brow. “Look, I’m sure that whatever Cas is doing is important. Or he’d come.”

Dean scoffs out loud at his brother’s blind willingness to give everyone they meet the benefit of the doubt. Like the delicate bleeding heart he is. “Yeah,” Dean says, dry as sand. “Because Cas dealing with secret, important angel business all on his own worked out _so_ well last time.” He tightens his hands around the edged metal and shakes his head angrily. “He fucking knifed that Alfie kid seconds after we spent an entire three days trying to rescue him. After he practically _begged_ us to help him out in the first place.”

“He said that Samandriel turned traitor. Tried to kill him.” Dean just gives his brother a skeptical look until Sam trails off. “What, you think he’s lying?”

“I _think_ it’s fishy as hell. And we can’t afford for Cas to come in from the cold dragging another head full of crazy.”

They’re silent for another long moment. Then Sam speaks up again, the voice of tentative hope. “Maybe he just can’t hear us. Part of the curse or something…y’know?” 

Dean breathes as he takes in the overly tan skin of his brother’s face. He desperately wants to believe Sam, but the justifications are getting flimsier and flimsier every second. And if they try to rely on Cas anymore, they just might just end up falling through. He swallows and wraps an arm around Sam’s shoulders. “Forget about Cas,” he grumbles. “How are you doing?”

His brother sighs under the weight of his arm and huddles in a little closer to Dean’s side. “I don’t know. It sucks?” He shrugs. “I’d always heard about that ‘phantom limb’ thing, but now I get to experience it first hand. Which is exciting,” he says sarcastically. Sam lets out a breath and runs his hand over his wrist again as he stares out at the river. Then he says, "That's the Chattahoochee by the way."

Dean just raises an eyebrow. "What, you got a map stapled to the back of your catheter or something?"

Sam laughs. "No. You see, I've got this roommate. Maybe you've met him. Scrawny guy? Never seems to shut up?" Dean smiles into the dark as Sam continues. "So anyway, my asshole of a brother thought it would be hilarious to trap me with him. And now I know everything there is to know about the ecology and surrounding area of fucking Fort Benning."

Dean hums, and jostles the arm he's got wrapped around Sam. "Y'know, this brother of yours sounds like a real sexy guy."

A choking noise escapes from the back of Sam's throat, but it sounds more like he's amused than dying. "He has his moments," he says fondly. Then he cuts his dark eyes back to Dean. “Y’know, I’m actually surprised you’re taking this so well. Kinda expected you to be freaking out a little more.”

Sam’s unwavering stare is starting to burn a hole through Dean’s calm façade, so he runs his tongue over his teeth as he comes up with an answer. “I dunno, man. I think it’s because it’s not really you? I mean, I’ll feel bad for the kids and all when they have to wake up to deal with this, but…” He shrugs. “We’re gonna gank whoever we have to and then we’ll be onto the next inning. And you’ll be fine again.”

Sam frowns. “And we’re gonna figure out this Masamune thing too, right?” he says slowly, carefully. “We’re gonna do both?” He’s asking a question, but it doesn’t sound like he means it.

Dean tightens his arm around Sam’s shoulder, just a hair. “’Course, Sammy,” he says. “Of course we will.” But he doesn’t think he sounds like he means it either. 

They remain there for a long while, staring off into the darkness in the cold as Dean struggles against the urge to kiss the man beside him. He risks a glance at Sam’s profile. They’re not allowed to be _them_ right now, but Dean _is_ allowed be a brother. And he can do that. And it should be enough. After all, he’s had years of practice. They stand together on the balcony of a hospital in Georgia, Dean’s arm looped around Sam’s back, in the bodies of two teenaged kids, and Dean thinks that he’s never felt quite as young as he does right at this moment. He doesn’t know what to do or where they’re going next...but he’s got Sam.

And, really? That’s all he needs.

 


	8. And I Just Can't Pretend (2)

_Water._

_Cold. Freezing cold. And rushing downstream, flooding past Sam so swiftly that every moment is a constant struggle to keep his footing. He reels precariously as the current surges up over his legs, pushing and beating him back into the rest of the creek. But he can’t let it. He knows that he can’t fall, or he’ll drown. Sam stumbles as another rolling wave of ice comes crashing into his body, higher now, up to his waist. He windmills his arms wildly as he tries to regain his balance, desperately grasping for anything that can rescue him from the ever rising tide. His hands hopelessly clutch at thin air as his heart hammers violently in his chest. Please. Oh god, anything. Anything that isn’t a watery grave at the bottom of an icy river._

_Then all of a sudden, out of nowhere, his fingers manage to snag onto something safe. Something safe and warm and solid. **Brother.** The word whispers across his mind, light like gossamer. And Sam finds his footing. Steady and certain. He curls his fingertips into the soft, threadbare material of Dean’s shirt—the comforting heat of his brother’s skin alive and reassuring and just a thin layer away. And Dean smiles at him. And it’s his face. It’s Dean’s face, and somehow that should be important but Sam can’t quite seem to remember why. His brother smiles at him and brings up his own fingers to grasp Sam’s, keeping him close, keeping him shielded from the water that’s now up to both of their chests. Sam smiles back at Dean, and leans down to capture his brother’s lips in a gentle kiss._

_And then his hand disappears. Right from underneath Dean’s fingers. And with no anchor, Sam stumbles under the current. Slowly lurching backwards. Too slowly. Dream-like. A pulling, inescapable tumble out of Dean’s reach and into the greedy, racing torrent threatening to consume him whole. And Sam only has enough time for one final glimpse of his brother’s face. His terrified expression the last thing Sam sees as he slips through Dean’s frantic, outstretched hands and into the dark, churning water below—_

_“Dean!”_ Sam gasps awake, flinging his hand out across the small bed. His forearm accidentally smacks directly into a dark shape huddled beside him and the huddle snorts awake as well.

“What? Jesus!” The shadow jerkily unfolds itself into the outline of a man and then leans over Sam’s torso, running a soothing hand over his collarbone. “Sammy, you alright?” it croaks, voice still thick and heavy with sleep. “What’s wrong?”

A face looms over him and unfamiliar features swim into focus as Sam’s eyes begin to adjust to the darkness. Another split second of panic races down his spine before his brain finally manages to catch up with him. _Dean_. It’s just Dean. Sam lets out a relieved breath and makes to curl his fingers into the shirt stretched over his brother’s chest. But his body doesn’t respond the way it should. And then that phantom ache starts to spread again, lines of pain radiating out from his wrist until Sam remembers.

Dean leans in a little more and Sam can make out the frown lines etched across his sharp brow, even in the dim lighting. “Sam, you okay?” Dean quirks his head to the side and looks Sam up and down, speculative. He must find whatever it is he’s looking for because he just falls back on his heels and quietly asks, “Nightmare?”

Sam swallows around the dryness in his own throat and nods. The stub of his left wrist is pressed against his brother’s sternum and Dean’s got his fingers securely wrapped around Sam’s forearm, a little further up. “Yeah,” Sam breathes. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.” 

He pushes his arm a little harder into Dean’s chest, an unconscious plea for his brother to not let go, and then he runs his good hand over his face. A quick check to his left reveals that his roommate is still sleeping soundly, so he couldn’t have made enough noise to alarm any of the staff. Just Dean, so attuned to Sam’s presence that he’s up and alert at any sign of distress, no matter how small. Although, to be fair, the unexpected smack in the face might have had something to do with it too. Sam exhales deeply and finally lets his limbs drop back to his sides, trying to calm his still-racing heart. His brother’s fingers follow him down to the bed, lightly trailing across the hair on his arm.

“You remember what it was about?” Dean’s voice is whisper-quiet in the shadowed room, but distinct against the sporadic beeping of the machines strewn around them. Although Sam’s pretty sure he could pick his brother’s voice out of a packed amphitheater. No matter whose vocal cords he was currently using.

“No,” he sighs. Then he has to hold back a dry chuckle at his brother’s look of skepticism. “I’m telling the truth. Can’t remember any of it.” He scrunches his face up as he tries. “There was water maybe?”

Dean gives him a long, studying look before he finally gives in. Picking his battles. “Fine,” he grumbles. “Though don’t act like it’s weird for me not to believe everything you tell me. Not like there ain’t precedent or anything.”

Sam lets out an amused breath and can’t help but poke. “That’s a fancy word. Where’d you pick that up?”

“Whatever, dude. I read.” Dean slumps tiredly back into his seat by the bed. “Jackass,” he mutters under his breath. Then after a moment, he slowly lifts his gaze back to Sam’s. Serious again, any shred of lightness gone. “Y’know, I thought we might be done with all the nightmare stuff after Cas sucked the crazy outta you.”

Sam scoffs quietly, just enough to show disdain without waking the man across the room. “It was just a nightmare, Dean. Regular people have them too.” But his brother still doesn’t look convinced, so Sam rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t any Hell stuff,” he says honestly. “I promise.”

Dean holds his gaze for another few seconds, then relents with a sigh. He scrubs a hand over his short hair and down across the back of his neck, tilting his head to rest against his chair. “Tomorrow is release day, you know,” Dean says bluntly, changing the subject with all the finesse that his brother is famous for. He could easily give any bull in any china shop a run for its money. “We’ll finally be able to get out there ourselves,” he murmurs tiredly. “Continue our investigation on foot.”

Sam shifts his right thigh under the blanket, still not used to the absence of pressure below his knee. “Still not sure how helpful I’m gonna be like this,” he says grumpily.

“What? You need two legs for legwork?” Dean smiles and taps a teasing finger in between Sam’s eyebrows. “Don’t worry, Geekboy. That giant head is the only thing you’re gonna need. You handle the research on this one and I’ll do the hard stuff.” He smirks like he can’t help himself. “Just like always.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Sam bites out. But he isn’t able to stop the light laugh that trails out alongside his words. “I’d like to see you try and handle a hunt without me.”

“ _Please_ ,” Dean scoffs. “I’m great on my own. I’ve taken down plenty of nasties over the years without your whiny ass holding me back.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah?” he says dryly. “Like the time I had the flu and you soloed that banshee?

Dean groans and pitches his head into his hands. “Shut up, Sam. That doesn’t count.”

He chuckles at the memory. “You thought it was a poltergeist, dude. I had to drive you to the hospital with a temperature of 103.”

“I was fine,” Dean mutters into his fingers. “You didn’t have to do shit.”

“Blood was literally leaking from your ears. I thought your brain had melted.”

“Well just ‘cause _you_ like to freak out about every little thing doesn’t mean that one was on me. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Wasn’t a big—?” Sam cuts himself off with an incredulous noise. “Dean, you couldn’t hear for a _week_.”

Dean lunges over Sam’s bed and clamps his mouth shut with his fingers. “Yeah, I remember,” he teases. “Best week of my life. Didn’t have to listen to your nagging for seven whole days.” Sam snorts under his brother’s hands and half-heartedly tries to buck him off. Dean just grins. “I should call one of those bitches up the next time I feel like taking a vacation. Peace and quiet, guaranteed, or my money back.”

Dean’s face is too close, way too close. Temptingly close. Dark gaze sparkling playfully above Sam's own and the irresistible pressure of his hands firm against his lips. And Sam’s immediate thought is to run his tongue over the ridge of his brother’s fingers. It was an infallible move when they were kids, certain to have Dean pulling away with a disgusted grimace and leaving Sam the victor more often than not. But as the years went on, it also became a deliciously foolproof way to work Dean up. All Sam has to do is sweep his tongue along the whorls of his brother’s fingertips and Dean’s eyes light on fire, from the inside out. Every single time. And then he always lets out this breathy-sounding moan, lowering his body down to meet Sam’s so he can slowly drag his hips up the line of Sam’s cock. Inch by torturous inch, until Sam has to throw his head back with a gasp and Dean snaps down to catch the breath with his own mouth. And at that point, it never matters who had started it originally because they both end up winning.

Sam swallows. Hard. And glances up at his brother’s eyes, too bright against the darkness of the room behind him. Like Dean is the only thing worth focusing on and the rest is just background. Set dressing. Sam takes a deep breath to mentally gather himself, then shoves every single bit of desire down into a tiny box and stomps on it. And keeps his lips firmly shut. _Brothers_. He reminds himself firmly. _These guys are brothers. Don’t do anything because **brothers.**_ Sam tries really, really hard to ignore the irony. 

And the stillness must finally get to Dean because he blinks awkwardly and pulls back a bit. Sam’s been unnaturally rigid long enough for his brother to realize the implications of their current position, and he flushes slightly as he tries to escape with his dignity intact. Dean pulls his hands away a little too abruptly and clears his throat, running his palms over the pants of his scrubs. “Yeah, so anyway,” he mumbles. “Like I was saying. Research.”

“Yeah.” Sam’s mouth is too dry. “Research. Right.” He shifts his hips up until he’s sitting against the back of the bed and twitches his fingers toward the laptop sitting on the table to his right. It’s lying atop the makeshift ‘Get Well’ card that Dean had scrawled for him in crayon a couple days earlier, as Sam is doing his best to hide the mostly pornographic scribbles from the eyes of the staff. There’s one green stick figure that’s particularly well-endowed and there are a couple of pink and purple doodles with fairly decent cans. Sam thinks the red one with the stupid hair is supposed to be him, but he’s not entirely sure about the rest. When Dean had triumphantly gifted it to him, he’d chosen to roll his eyes instead of asking his brother to clarify which cartoon represented what (assuming that ‘foursome with Sofia Vergara and Salma Hayek’ was way too high on the list of possible answers for Sam to really want to find out). Sam clears his throat and shakes himself out of his musings. _Focus on the job_. “Uh, there weren’t any suspicious deaths that I could find here at the hospital,” he shrugs. “Not that I could make out anyway.”

Dean gingerly sits back in his chair, feathers probably still a little ruffled. “And the town?” he asks.

“Not much to look into,” Sam says. “Mostly accidents. A couple muggings. Nothing really out of the ordinary for a city this size.”

His brother lets out a contemplative breath. “The army base then?” He glances at Sam. “It _is_ where we ended up.”

“Yeah,” Sam nods. “Makes sense I guess.” Then he furrows his brow. “I couldn’t find any deaths though. You’d think there’d be some sort of trail if there was a murderer lurking around. Or a monster,” he adds as an afterthought.

Dean absentmindedly gnaws at a hangnail. “This Moreno guy the only injury?” he asks, words muffled around the thumb in his mouth. “From Fort Benning?”

“The only serious one.” Sam glances back at the laptop. “Y’know, other than the occasional sprained ankle or shin splints. I think one woman might have fractured her metatarsal. But nothing life-threatening.”

His brother pulls his fingers away from his teeth. “Except for you,” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” Sam sighs. “Except for me.”

Dean nods thoughtfully, then throws on a carefree tone. Clearly feigned. “Alright, well we can deal with that tomorrow.” He shifts around in his chair, making a big show of settling down for the night. It really doesn’t look comfortable, and Sam is three-quarters of the way to suggesting that Dean curl up on the bed with him before he thinks better of it. Just like he has every other night this past week. There’s no reason to confuse his brother with a bunch of mixed signals after Sam’s very logical and deliberate freeze-out. On account of the incest and all. Dean finally seems to find some attempt at a relaxing position and throws him a tight smile. “Go back to bed, Sleeping Beauty. We’ll handle it in the morning.”

Sam manages to scoot down and situate himself somewhat horizontally, but he can’t seem to get comfortable, despite his exhaustion. He knows logically that he literally _just_ woke up from a nightmare—couldn’t have been more than five minutes ago—but it still seems like he hasn’t slept in a week. Every single time he wakes up, he ends up feeling more drained then when he went to sleep in the first place. So instead, Sam decides to keep his eyes fixed on the stiff outline of his brother’s shadow until he feels relaxed enough to fall asleep. But it doesn’t help much. Dean is too far away for Sam’s peace of mind and too obviously uncomfortable for him to feel anything about it but guilt. 

Dean doesn’t sleep a wink, all night. 

Neither does Sam.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

“Why can’t I just have a prosthetic?”

Dean rolls his eyes and makes another irritated sound as he scans the paperwork in front of him. Probably uncertain on how to deal with actual insurance now that their usual method of ‘cut and run before anyone finds out’ is off the table. He flips back to the first page, offhandedly replying, “Because the doctors didn’t give you one, moron.”

Sam makes a deliberate effort to minimize the petulance in his tone. He does not succeed. “So go steal me one.”

“Sam, your fucking stitches ain’t even out yet. I am not jamming a hunk of plastic against your open wound.”

“Dude, I’ll be fine,” he wheedles. “It won’t even hurt that much.”

Dean finally looks up to meet his gaze, apparently annoyed past the point of ignoring him. “The answer is no, you giant freak. What’s wrong with the crutch they gave you?”

Sam awkwardly crosses one arm over his chest and thins his lips. He stubbornly manages to hold off from answering until his brother’s impatient eyebrow finally makes it a necessity. “It makes me look like I’m waiting for Ebenezer Scrooge to come to Christmas dinner,” he mumbles sullenly.

Dean laughs out loud at that one. Throws his head back and everything. “Are you freaking kidding me?” he eventually gets out between huffs. “Dude, come on. I’m pretty sure your precious ego can take it for one afternoon.”

“Oh, please,” Sam scoffs. “If this was you in my place, you know you’d be doing the exact same thing.”

“Tell you what, Sammy.” Dean tosses him an evil grin. “We find a machine gun at the base, I’ll let you shove it on there. Like that stripper chick from Grindhouse. How’s that sound?”

“I hate you,” Sam grinds out.

But Dean just slips out of his chair to crouch in front of his bent knees, grin still firmly in place. “Sure you do,” he says. Then he presses a casual kiss to the skin just above the bandage. And Sam doesn’t even feel like calling him on it. “C’mon, Tiny Tim. Put your pants on so we can get the hell out of Dodge.”

The nurse who had unofficially adopted his brother ( _L-something_ , Sam can’t remember her name) had washed the fatigues Dean had come in with, and only the faintest leftover stain remains to hint at the massive amount of Sam’s blood that must have drenched the front of it after his injury. Or…Alex Moreno’s blood, anyway. Sam tears his envious gaze away from his brother’s uniform and finally gives in, reaching across the bed for the scrub pants the orderlies had left him. Apparently, the fatigues _he’d_ been wearing before the explosion had been past saving. So now he was stuck with a simple white t-shirt and light blue scrubs. Standard issue for the hospital crowd, but sure to stick out like a sore thumb at the army base. As if Sam wasn’t _already_ going in there with ‘cripple’ practically branded across his forehead. At least Alex’s remaining boot had been salvageable. He really didn’t want to have to make do with whatever the nurses could scrounge up as far as footwear was concerned.

“Someone’s gonna step on this, man,” Dean says, and inclines his head toward Sam’s empty pant leg. Then he scooches forward to handle it, busying himself with rolling up the right side, and Sam is torn between accepting the help and boxing his brother on the ear. And Dean seems to feel the glare against the back of his head because he turns to pin Sam with a look of exasperation. “Oh, grow up,” he scolds. “I’m not gonna let someone trip you just ‘cause you feel like being a bitch about this.”

“Wow, Dean,” Sam says pettily. He can’t really help it. It’s been five days of frustrating helplessness, and with no other outlet, it seems to be seeping from his pores. “You’re just eating this up, aren’t you?”

“Dude, what are you talking about?” His brother barely spares him a glance.

“No, I’m serious. I bet you live for this shit, huh? Poor, weak, little Sammy. Can’t even fucking walk without his big brother helping him out. Bet you feel real _useful_ right now, don’t you?”

Dean growls, but manages to hold the rest of his body still. “Sam, you’re being a fucking ass right now. But considering the circumstances, I’m gonna drop it.”

“This may come as a shock to you,” Sam can’t help but snap, “but I’m not actually a child. And I don’t need your help to get dressed.”

“Fine,” Dean barks. “Then do it yourself. Dick.” He shoves himself to his feet and heads to the open doorway.

“Wait,” he groans out to his brother’s back. And thankfully Dean hesitates, willing to hear him out. “Dean, I—” He scrubs his good hand over his forehead. “I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. I’m just—”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean mutters. His shoulders drop back down somewhere in the vicinity of calm. “Shut up.” He strides out the door without looking back, but no lingering sense of resentment seems to trail in his wake.

Sam sighs and falls back against the bed. He’s tired and he’s pissed and he really wants to get out of this fucking nightmare. And for once, he doesn’t even care about the curse. He’d gladly go toe-to-toe with another monster as long as that meant he had all ten of them. Fuck, at this point, he’d probably settle for nine. Sam groans and lifts his head up until he can make out his brother’s shadow up at the nurse’s station, blurred through the frosted glass of his room window. The higher-ups at Fort Benning had given them one afternoon to collect all of Moreno’s stuff from the barracks, but after that, _Jesse_ was expected to catch up with his training and _Alex_ was expected to head back to their mother’s house in LaGrange. Which meant that if they didn’t manage to clinch the case by tonight, they’d have a bitch of a time trying to go at it while separated. 

He manages to tug his boot on all by himself (yay for small victories), but nearly has a conniption fit once he realizes that he won’t be able to lace it with only one hand. And after the little stunt he just pulled, Dean’s going to rub it in his fucking face. And that’s the best case scenario. Sam growls and yanks at his stupid crutch leaning against the wall. Maybe he’ll just leave it undone and no one will notice. 

But when his brother comes strolling back into his room, it’s the very first thing his eyes cut to. Because of course it is. Sam glares at the disinfectant-glazed floor, cheeks burning, and refuses to acknowledge his obvious shortcoming. Or maybe he’s just steeling himself for the inevitable ridicule. But Dean simply pauses in the doorway, as if uncertain over which approach could possibly set him off again. Sam drops his head so he doesn’t have to watch his brother's tentative concern anymore. Because it isn’t like he can really blame him. And apparently, that’s all it takes for Dean to make up his mind. He sinks to his knees in front of Sam again and starts on the laces without a single word.

Sam slowly lets his head fall forward, until it’s brushing against the side of his brother’s temple. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Nah. I get it, Sam,” Dean says, just as quietly. “I do.”

Sam waits for him to finish, but doesn’t move away from the contact. And Dean’s hands eventually still, but he doesn’t move either. “I hate this,” Sam finally admits. Then he lets out a pained chuckle. “Who’d have thought that I’d ever miss our crappy fucking life, huh?”

Dean just breathes and runs a comforting hand over his thigh. “Our lame-ass motel room isn’t looking so bad now? That what you’re saying?”

“Dunno,” Sam says wryly. “It _was_ pretty lame. Even for us.”

Dean hums in assent, then trails a finger over his wrist. “Sam,” he starts, all business now. “I’m gonna back your play here, alright? This—” He gives up on grazing around the bandages and drops his hand to cover Sam’s wrist entirely. “This is fucked, so whatever you need. Okay?”

A faint car alarm goes off outside the window and Sam listens for a moment, not wanting to deal with his brother’s statement. “It’s kinda good though, right?” he asks, out of left field. “That it’s us? I mean, someone would have ended up having to deal with this eventually. So it’s good that it’s us. Plus, we saved that kid.”

Dean sighs at the blatant evasion and gives up. “Yeah, Sammy. We did. They should probably hand us a couple Medals of Honor.”

“We could ask once we get to the fort,” Sam jokes. Then he furrows his brow. “Actually, wait. You think I’ll get a Purple Heart?”

Dean laughs. “Yeah, maybe. I mean, it’ll be in some other dude’s name, but some chicks might believe you. Y’know, if they’re drunk enough.”

Sam lets out a faux-irritated huff of air. “Fuck you.”

“Yeah. Don’t I wish,” Dean says under his breath. And Sam’s mental warning bells start going off because they have officially moved into dangerous territory, but Dean just sighs and heaves himself to his feet. “Alright, Lieutenant Dan. Day’s a-wasting and we’ve got a sicko to catch. Unless you’re feeling extra partial to Velcro shoes. ‘Cause I ain’t doing that for you everyday.”

Sam smiles to himself and allows Dean to pull him upright, but doesn’t say a word. Because Dean totally would, despite the lies flying out of his mouth. He’d do up Sam’s shoes every single day if he had to, and he wouldn’t complain once. Sam tucks the crutch under his arm and meets his brother’s eyes. “So,” he clarifies, “I’m calling the shots, huh?”

Dean grins wolfishly. “Sir, yes, sir.”

“Well,” Sam says. “In that case, I think we should probably go gank ourselves a bad guy. How does that sound?”

“Pretty fucking satisfying, if you ask me.” Then Dean cracks his knuckles and throws him another grin. “C’mon, Sammy. Our chariot awaits.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Their ‘chariot’ turns out to be an old, military-class Humvee, with dried mud caked all along the undercarriage. The rust bucket has definitely seen its share of better days, clanking and groaning as it creaks to a shaky stop, but beggars can’t be choosers. And as long as Sam isn’t expected to walk, he’s more than grateful. A tough-looking leatherneck sits rigidly in front, along with a younger African American man, and Sam should have guessed that there would be more of an escort than just a driver, but he can’t help tensing at the unexpected company. Dean jerks an automatic hand to the small of his back before thinking better of it, and Sam has to stop himself from begging Dean to put it back. But instead, his brother just plasters on a fake grin and saunters up to the car, mugging in order to pull the unwanted attention away from Sam. 

“How you doing there, Cooper?” he drawls, clapping a hand to the kid’s shoulder. “Been a while.”

Cooper brightens at the attention, beaming up at his brother. “It’s all good, Moreno,” he says. The he turns to Sam and practically crows. “Baby Moreno! Look at you, man. Up and about like a fucking trooper.” He punches Dean’s arm playfully. “What’d I tell you?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean admits graciously. “Will of a warrior, this guy.” He tosses Sam a fleeting, but genuine, smile. “And the most stubborn jackass I’ve ever met in my life.” Sam pushes away the irrational flutter of affection as Dean turns his attention to the older officer, snapping off an over-exaggerated salute with a saccharine smile. “And it’s so good to see you, sir.” Sam elbows his brother in the ribs before he can incite the man to violence, but Dean just ignores him. “Wanted to thank you personally for allowing me to watch over my brother in his time of need,” he gushes patronizingly. “Mark of a true leader.”

Sam clears his throat loudly and glares at his brother. “Alright. We were just sitting down now. Weren’t we, _Jesse?”_ He shoves Dean into the back of the jeep as he eyes the man’s stripes. “And leaving the good sergeant alone.” Dean grumbles half-heartedly at the rebuke, but turns to help Sam up and over the frame.

Cooper gapes at them, slack-jawed, as they get situated. But it isn’t until Dean raises an instigative eyebrow that he finally speaks. “Sorry, man,” he gawks. “It’s just… Did y’all have a brain transplant while you were at the hospital or something? ‘Cause you’re freaking me out. For real.”

Dean rolls his eyes and mutters something about “trauma,” but Sam throws the soldier a strained smile. “Long week,” he says simply. And Cooper seems to buy it with nothing more than a pensive shrug.

The drive back to Fort Benning is long and rough and unpleasant. The Humvee rattles over each bump in the road like the frame wants to tear itself apart, and the engine sputters and coughs more than it actually runs. Sam flicks a glance over at Dean. He looks like he might be running mechanical diagnostics in his head, or maybe he’s just listening to his inner Zeppelin playlist. Either way, his brother is probably itching to get elbows deep into the thing from just the sound alone.

The smell of dust and rain swirl in through the lowered windows and Sam peers up at the cloudy sky, wondering if it’s cold enough to snow. They’re close enough to see the river now, through the trees. A ribbon of dark blue cutting through the lighter green of the thick clumps of forest. Every once in a while, Sam can even make out the scraggy shape of the gray rocks lining the bank. He sighs and turns away from the open window. Cooper is still gazing dully out at the landscape, apparently completely indifferent to Sam’s missing pieces. Other than the initial cursory lookover, he hadn’t given his injuries a second glance. And Sam can’t help but feel a bit of warm appreciation for the kid bloom in his chest. At least Alex Moreno has good people around him. It might ease the sting a little when he wakes up to his unfortunate new situation.

Sam runs his fingers in tiny circles over the metal of his crutch, nervous, and Dean tosses him a quick look. “Hey, how many recruits do you think are gonna be in there?” Sam asks, as nonchalantly as possible.

But Dean sees right through him, just like always. Sam’s pretty sure that the fidgeting is what gave him away. “Dude, it’ll be fine,” he says reassuringly, out the side of his mouth. “No one’s even gonna notice us, alright?”

Sam flexes his hand around the cheap aluminum and forces himself to nod. “Yeah, of course,” he covers poorly. “It’s just…it’s gonna be hard to poke around for info with a bunch of yahoos breathing down our necks. You know?” He casts his gaze around the Humvee’s interior for anything that isn’t his brother’s face (Sam is way too easy to read when Dean’s looking at him) and ends up focusing on the imposingly disciplined back of the sergeant’s head. The man hasn’t said a single word the whole trip and it’s getting kind of creepy. Or impressive. One or the other.

“Uh-huh,” Dean says diplomatically. “Sure.” He side-eyes Sam for a moment, then sniffs and nestles back into his seat. “Y’know,” he starts casually. “It’ll probably be way more helpful if you have a nice, long chat with those yahoos. More likely than not, they’ll hand you that info right on a silver platter.” Dean tilts his head at Sam’s leg and waggles his eyebrows. “And play up the sympathy card.” Sam snorts, and Dean nudges his shoulder teasingly. “I’m serious, dude,” he says with a grin. “Ten bucks says it works even better than that stupid puppy dog thing you do.”

Sam rolls his eyes and glances back out the window, intentionally ignoring his brother. They’re coming up on the encampment now, and Sam can make out the glinting silver of barbed wire lining the tops of the massive gates. A pale yellow sign welcomes them to Fort Benning and lets them know that the looming base in the distance is the ‘Home of the Infantry’. Sam huffs out a breath as he skims the raised lettering. Very informative of them. There’s an underlying rumble in the air as they pass by the hangar, the whir of chopper blades supplemented by the occasional whoosh of an airplane taking off. They drive past long stretches of scrubland, bare mounds of dirt peppered with sparse brush, and Sam gets a painful feeling of familiarity that aches in his phantom hand. He rotates his wrist and waits for it to pass, keeping his gaze inside the car until they eventually pull up in front of the barracks.

The sergeant stiffly unfolds himself to standing and perches outside the Humvee, back as straight as a pin. It’s the first show of movement Sam has seen from the man, and he makes sure to let Cooper and Dean exit the vehicle before him. But not because he’s intimidated or anything. It’s just polite. He shakes off his brother’s supportive hand around his elbow and hops down as best he can.

The officer waits until he’s completely settled on the grass before finally deigning to speak. “Cooper,” he says evenly, then casts his head in the kid’s direction, dismissive. Cooper slinks away into the barracks with one last reluctant look at Dean, and the sergeant turns his attention back toward the two of them. “Moreno.” He nods at Dean, but Sam can catch a hint of distaste hidden under the intentional cordiality. “Alejandro.” That one’s directed to Sam. Apparently his guy is officially a civilian now. “You’ll have the rest of the afternoon to collect your things. I’ll return at 1600 hours with another vehicle to escort you off the premises—with or without your brother.” He eyes Dean distastefully and blandly asks, “You come to a decision on that ELS, private? We can have the commander approve one for you if you’ve made up your mind.” Every iota of his tone makes it perfectly clear that he’s all for Dean having made up his mind.

But Dean just sucks at his teeth obnoxiously, and Sam has to restrain himself from sighing in exasperation. The man has just unknowingly given his brother a valid reason to make as much an ass of himself as humanly possible. “I dunno, Sparky,” Dean jeers, intentionally contrary. “May have to think about it for a while. Run it over in my head, so to speak.” He throws on his most infuriating smirk, the one that’s gotten many a redneck barfly to punch him right in his smug face, then he leans in. “You know how it is,” he sneers. “Tell you what. How ‘bout I let you know at 1600 hours?” He pulls back with a self-righteous expression, and Sam is only able to resist stomping on his brother’s toes because he knows he’d topple over if he tried.

The sergeant takes a deep breath and manages to slowly grind his features into an disturbing amalgamation of stoic and sadistic. “Of course, Private,” he says. “And I’d just like _you_ to know that if you do choose to stay with us, I will _personally_ make sure that you get the most hands-on instruction I am capable of giving.” He smirks right back at Dean. “So please, do let me know.” The sergeant hooks an arm around the frame of the Humvee and pivots himself back into the bucket seat with military precision. And the jeep has already puttered its way over the hill before either one of them can come up with something to say. It’s shockingly rare to see anyone able to give Dean a run for his money, and Sam is torn between hating the officer and begrudgingly rooting for the guy.

Dean breaks the silence first. “Jackass,” he mutters lowly. Then he lets out a breath and swings back to face Sam. “Alright. You sure you’re good to handle this?”

“I’m fine, Dean. Shut up.” Sam scoffs at his brother’s mother henning and lifts his head to take in the sight of the barracks. The wooden structure could almost be quaint if it weren’t so huge, the rust-colored façade perfectly blending in with the orange of the dirt surrounding them on all sides. The only break in the monotony is the dark mahogany of the trees a few yards away, trunks poking up here and there in small clusters, slim like toothpicks.

"You shut up,” Dean grumbles sullenly, but he seems more peeved at the sergeant from earlier than Sam.

There’s a low grunting sound emanating faintly from the far woods and Sam jerks his head to indicate the noise. “Wild hogs,” he says, stalling so clumsily that he’s not sure why he’s even keeping up the pretense. “Apparently they’re a problem around here.”

His brother scoffs and fixes him with a look. “Well, you’re just a fucking font of information, ain’t you?”

“It’s entirely your fault and I feel no remorse.” Sam huffs out a weak laugh and shakes his head. “Y’know, I _should_ just rattle off all the bullshit info that dude crammed into my brain. It’d serve you right.”

“Yeah, yeah. Well you can torture me once you’re better. So I won’t feel so guilty beating up a cripple.” Dean gives his back a light push—much lighter than usual, when Sam is sturdy enough to take it without falling—and shuffles them into the imposing barracks.

Sam had been mentally preparing himself for a large crowd, a huge batch of recruits eying him like some helpless victim, but _(thankfully)_ only a few heads poke up at their entrance. Cooper is still there from before, and Sam feels a stupid flush of relief that he doesn’t have to worry about at least one of the soldiers’ judgmental gaze. The group is rounded out by four other men and one woman, all in casual undershirts. Two of the nondescript guys in the back are paying the least attention to the newcomers, but the guy beside them shuffles his feet guiltily. He’s got a broad face with an upturned nose and piggish, deep-set eyes. He almost glares at Sam and Dean’s approach, and Sam makes a quick mental note of the stranger’s animosity.

However, in shining contrast to the rest of the room, the two recruits at the front of the pack nearly leap to their feet once they spot him. The woman is a sturdy-set blonde, with biceps that would intimidate Sam even on his best day. She scrambles up to him, dislodging his brother’s hold, and Dean takes a break from his automatic leering to be offended. She’s joined by the final man flanking Sam’s other side. He’s skinny, but with the wiry sort of strength that belies the narrowness of his frame, and proudly sports an ornate cross on a leather thong strung round his neck. The guy’s head is completely shaved and he grins up at Sam past dark, slanted eyes. 

“Baby Moreno!” the woman cries dotingly. She wraps a frightening arm around Sam’s neck and yanks him down to press a firm kiss against his cheek. “Knew you’d be okay. No fucker’s gonna take this guy down. Not even a fucking grenade. What do you think, Ocampo?”

The man on Sam’s right laughs softly and presses a gentle palm to his shoulder. “I bet baby Moreno’s gonna tell everyone back home that he won a fight with a bomb. Really showed it who was boss, huh?”

Sam is outright floored by the outpouring of genuine warmth, and even Dean has moved past insulted and right up to unexpectedly grateful at the kind reception. Sam clears his dry throat a little awkwardly. “Uh— Hi…guys.”

“What’d I tell you?” Cooper chimes as he lopes up to the rest of the group. “I told you. He’s fine. He’s all good, man.”

Sam opens his mouth to say…something, anything. But he’s slightly overwhelmed by all the admiring stares blinking up at him. He stands there, completely speechless, for a solid two or three seconds, until Dean notes his distress and jostles back through to his usual place at Sam’s side.

“Alright, redshirts. Back the fuck up. My brother needs his breathing room.” His tone is light, but all three of the soldiers automatically obey and take a couple of steps back. “Good,” Dean says. “Now, I’d really love to know if anyone happened to be there at the time. Saw what went down? Firsthand, I mean.”

The three exchange glances for an awkward moment, and then Cooper tentatively speaks up. “Um, Moreno… You were there, man.”

“No. What? I know,” Dean backpedals entirely unconvincingly. “I meant _other_ than me. Y’know, ‘cause—” He shares a wavering glance with Sam. “Uh, Sa—Alex here doesn’t remember. Right?” Sam nods to back his brother’s obviously crumbling play, but it seems to bolster Dean nonetheless. “I wanted to see if anyone else saw anything as _well_ ,” he continues. “Just to make sure.”

“Okay. Look, Moreno.” The pig-faced guy from the back of the room slinks up beside them, lips twisted like he’s been sucking on a lemon. “I can see what you’re doing here,” he spits, “and it’s _pathetic_. But it wasn’t my fault okay?”

“Well that’s not suspicious at all,” Dean says dryly.

“Fuck off, Jordan,” the blonde says tiredly. “No one was even saying that. Why don’t you just head back to your bunk?”

Jordan glares at her, then snaps, “That’s exactly what they’re doing! The fucking Moreno boys are trying to get everyone to turn on me.” He drags his eyes up to meet Sam’s, sheepish. “Look, I’m sorry about the—” He gestures vaguely. “Everything. But I didn’t do anything, man.”

“They _were_ your grenades,” Cooper adds quietly. “Just saying.”

“Yeah? So what?” Jordan barks. “I was with both of these jackoffs all day and Sergeant Palmer knows that! That’s why he’s the only one who believes me. No way I could’ve done anything without someone seeing.” Jordan squares his shoulders against the pack of them and jerks his chin up. “Plus, yeah, they _were_ my grenades. You ever think that maybe someone was trying to go after _me?_ And maybe Moreno just ended up in the way ‘cause he’s a showboating jackass? You ever think of that?”

Ocampo sighs and massages his fingers over his eyes. “No one was trying to go after anyone, Jordan,” he says a little condescendingly, like they’ve had this conversation a few times. “It was a malfunction or something. Or a mix-up. Someone probably wasn’t paying attention and a few real grenades accidentally got sorted in with the M83s.” He pulls his hand away and fixes Jordan with an even stare. “Y’know, you’re actually probably really lucky that baby Moreno ended up taking the brunt of the blast and not you. You could have been really hurt, Jordan.”

“Yeah, dickweed,” Jordan snarls. “That’s what I’m _saying_.” He turns away, back hunched, and stalks over to the entryway. “Trust me,” he tosses over his shoulder. “If I wanted either Moreno dead…they’d know it.” He slams the door behind him to underscore the foreboding statement.

Sam raises an eyebrow at the dramatic exit. “Nice guy,” he comments flatly.

Ocampo snorts at his side. “Yeah.” He lifts his head to stare out after Jordan. “He breaks small animals when he’s bored, you know,” Ocampo says sadly. “I’ve seen him.”

Dean leans a casual hip against the closest bunk. “I’d believe it.”

“Hey, Moreno. Don’t be sad.” The blonde woman chucks a fist at Dean’s arm. “You want me to go beat him up for you? Defend baby Moreno’s honor?”

“My honor is fine, thank you,” Sam grinds out through his teeth.

“Aw,” the blonde coos. “Look at that. He’s finally learned how to be a grown-up. And it only took a giant explosion.”

Dean’s expression darkens, like she’s gone too far, and Sam has to press his brother back against the bed frame with an elbow across his chest. “De—” He catches himself. “ _Jesse_ , she’s kidding.”

The blonde blinks at him, taken aback. “Yeah, Moreno. I didn’t— It’s not like I meant anything by it.”

“Sorry,” Dean forces out. “Guess I’m a little touchy.”

Cooper lets out a weak laugh, clearly uncomfortable with the new tension in the room. “Hey, man. Of course you are.” He glances to Ocampo for back up. “Makes total sense, right?”

Ocampo smiles gently and nudges Dean’s shoulder. _“Usted tiene que mirar hacia fuera para tu hermano.”_

Dean smiles back, a little too wide. “Ha. Yeah.” He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck and turns his head into Sam’s space, hiding behind his elbow. “What did he just say to me?” he whispers urgently.

Sam smiles and shifts his crutch under his arm so he can scratch at his upper lip, hiding his own reply. “He said you gotta watch out for me,” he murmurs back, just as furtive.

“I don’t wanna blow our cover.” Dean shifts his head back, throwing Ocampo a quick nod. “How do I say ‘I always do’ in Spanish?”

Sam tries. He really does for one struggling moment. But he’d be kidding himself if he thought he could avoid the temptation. He schools his expression and leans in to whisper in his brother’s ear.

 _“Tengo un pene pequeño,”_ Dean announces proudly to the room.

Ocampo snorts at Dean’s proclamation, and a couple of the other guys choke down their laughter in the background.

Dean balks at the unexpected response. “What?” he asks Sam surreptitiously. “What’d I say?”

“Nothing, man,” Sam lies through his teeth, barely keeping it together. “They probably weren’t impressed with your accent or something.” Dean eyes him suspiciously, but finally seems to take his word for it.

Ocampo drops a friendly hand onto Dean’s shoulder, wiping the laughter from the corners of his eyes. “See guys, Moreno’s all good. Totally back to normal.” He pats Dean’s cheek a couple times. “We should let these goofballs pack. Let ‘em breathe a little bit before Palmer comes back.”

“Yeah, alright.” Cooper runs his tongue over his teeth and looks up at Dean. “Hey, Moreno,” he asks shyly. “You’re coming back, right? Palmer said you might not, and—” He glances at Sam. “I mean, I’d get it if you didn’t. Hell, it ain’t gonna be the same for any of us without baby Moreno. But…” He trails off and fixes his gaze back to Dean, questioning.

“I, uh— I dunno, man,” Dean answers honestly. Cooper nods and stares at his shoes. He looks like he’s just had to shoot his own dog, and Sam silently vows to finish this thing before Dean gets Jesse booted out by default. These kids could probably use all the friends they can get.

There’s a brief pause, and then Cooper glances up again, smile affixed to his face for Sam’s benefit. He gives Sam a friendly pat on the back, then heads over to his bunk. And then Ocampo comes up next, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. The girl is the last to leave, wrapping Sam in a final, tight hug before trailing after the rest. Sam stretches his arms out a little as he watches her go, his bones creaking. The strength on that woman is almost unbelievable. When he glances back, Dean is watching him with a soft smile on his face. “What?” he asks.

“Nothing, man. Just—” He shrugs. “It’s kinda nice seeing you with people, Sammy. That’s all.”

“Yeah. I guess I forgot what it was like,” Sam admits quietly. “To have friends like that.” He suddenly realizes what he’s just said and backpedals quickly. “Not that I don’t— I mean, no. I didn’t mean—”

Dean chuckles. “Dude, relax. No one’s even here to be offended.”

Sam’s cheeks burn as he stares at the floor. “I just meant _casual_ friends, y’know? No life or death anything, just…” He shakes his head. “Whatever, it’s dumb. It’s not like they’re even _my_ friends anyway.” Dean’s got that stupid smile on again when he risks a glance. “Stop it,” he grumbles, and his brother just lifts his palms up defensively. But he’s still smiling. “Dude,” Sam sighs, “can we please just work?”

Dean rubs a thumb over his lip. “Hey. You’re calling the shots, remember?”

“Fine. Great. Then let’s work.” Sam sinks onto the bed behind him and leans his crutch against the frame across the way. It teeters a little too far to one side, but Dean manages to catch it before it falls, pulling it over his lap as he sits beside Sam. “Okay, so that grenade thing. That’s completely suspicious.”

His brother huffs out a laugh. “Understatement.”

Sam bites at the inside of his cheek. “It could’ve been Sergeant Palmer, maybe? He _is_ the only one who bought Jordan’s pretty flimsy story. If he’s the culprit, it would make sense why.”

Dean frowns until a tiny line etches itself between his brows. “I don’t know,” he says grudgingly. “He doesn’t really seem like the type.” He glances up at Sam’s look of disbelief. “No, okay. I mean, _yeah_ , the guy’s a world class asshole. But…” Dean trails off and tugs at his ear. “He just doesn’t seem like a killer to me.” Then Dean snorts. “Well,” he clarifies. “At least, not _friendlies_. Y’know?”

“Yeah,” Sam mutters darkly. “Because you were so on point with our last little mystery.”

“Dude, are you talking about Detroit? No. Doesn’t count. That was a—” Dean flutters his hand, “Whaddya call it—a statistical outsider.”

“Statistical _outlier_ ,” Sam corrects. Then he laughs. “And no, it wasn’t.”

Dean digs his fingers into the side of Sam’s torso. Hard. “Shut up, Sam. You didn’t know either. Fucking creepo won you over with his pathetic goo-goo eyes. You didn’t even suspect a thing.” Sam twists away from the attack, laughing involuntarily, but accomplishes nothing. This isn’t even close to their real sparring, but Sam’s only got one hand right now to fend Dean off with. And honestly, he doesn’t tend to do that well in any of their wrestling matches, even when he’s whole. He makes to push his brother’s face away, but just ends up cracking his bad wrist over Dean’s chin. And Dean immediately freezes at Sam’s sharp intake of breath. “Oh shit,” he hisses, cradling the injured limb. “Sorry, sorry.” He runs his fingers over the edge of the bandage. “Fuck, Sammy. I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s fine, Dean.” Sam manages a reassuring smile as soon as the pain starts to ebb away. “Don’t worry about it.” He pulls his wrist back into his lap and tries not to think about his brother’s shattered expression.

Dean clears his throat and sheepishly focuses back on the case. “Could be one of the other recruits,” he starts up again, unnaturally subdued. “But I’m pretty sure Cooper’s clean. Ocampo maybe?”

“I don’t know.” Sam scrunches up his face. “He seems kind of sweet. And religious.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, because religious people never kill anyone,” he says sarcastically.

“Oh, come on,” Sam prompts. “Crusading nutjobs, yeah. But not peaceful, turn-the-other-cheek types.”

“The dude enlisted. Not sure why you think he’s Mr. Hunger Strike for no good reason.”

“Whatever.” Sam fiddles with the string at his waistband. “Maybe it’s the girl.”

Dean makes a face. “Yeah,” he says, unconvinced. “Maybe.”

Sam throws his good hand up. “Well, I guess it could be Jordan.” Dean snorts. “And no one saw him do anything because he’s smarter than he looks?” He groans and falls back on the bed. “Or it could be any one of the hundreds of other people crawling all over this base. And we won’t find out until someone else turns up dead.” Dean sighs, and Sam shifts his head on the mattress to contemplate his brother’s profile. He looks exhausted, and Sam must too. It’s actually pretty fortunate that no one’s mentioned it yet. Though, he guesses that recovering from a horrible injury is a fairly decent excuse for looking like crap. And the bags under Dean’s eyes could probably be explained away as long, sleepless sojourns at his suffering brother’s bedside.

Dean closes his eyes and leans his head back to roll the kinks out of his neck. “I don’t know, Sam,” he mutters. “This whole thing doesn’t make a lick of sense, far as I’m concerned.”

Sam ponders the side of Dean’s face. “You could go out and investigate the site,” he says, muted. “It’s just— I’m not going to be able to do much more than slow you down like this.” Dean fixes him with a pissy look, and Sam lets out a breath. “Dean, it’s true.” He lifts a shoulder. “Plus, I’m not even sure if you’re gonna find anything. The base is huge. And without a larger sampling of victims, we don’t have a lot to go on.”

Dean brings a hand up to brush over Sam’s head, thumb tracing patterns through his short hair. And Sam tries not to melt into the touch so obviously. “Do you want me to stay?” Dean asks softly. “If I’m here at the base, I might be able to catch the guy as soon as he rears his ugly head.”

Sam opens his eyes to study his brother’s features for a good minute or two. Eventually he asks, “Do _you_ want to stay?”

“I want you better.”

He hums noncommittally, then rolls his head back to stare at the ceiling. “I think the curse hates me.”

His brother snorts. “Well, you’re not the one it kicked off a bridge.” 

And Sam has to smile at that. “I rescued you,” he says nostalgically. Then he chuckles. “Must’ve been pretty dashing, huh?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “My girlhood was all a-quiver.”

“Oh, dude. C’mon,” Sam complains, scrunching his face up. “That sounds so fucking creepy when you say it.”

Dean’s lips quirk up at the corner and his hand stills, warm on the back of Sam’s skull. “So what’s the plan here, Sammy? Should I stay or should I go?”

“You know, it doesn’t matter how well you fit them into context,” he grumbles. “I can still tell they’re The Clash lyrics.”

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean prods. “Plan. What is it?”

Sam lets out a frustrated sigh. “I don’t know, Dean. I mean, yeah, I guess that makes sense. But,” he shifts onto his side, “it’s gonna suck for you to have to deal with this thing alone.”

“Done it before,” he says.

“What if something happens? If I’m not there to back you up?”

Dean rubs a hand over his jaw, hesitant, and says, “I doubt it could get much worse than our current situation, kiddo.”

“Dean, what if something happens to you and I don’t even know about it?” Sam pushes himself back up to sitting. Face-to-face. “It’s not like you’re going to be able to contact me that often. Hell, I might not know for weeks.”

“Hey, c’mon,” Dean brags. “You think some asshole’s gonna be able to get the drop on me?” He grins and rucks up his shirt. “Dude, check these out. I ain’t had abs like this since I was eighteen.” Sam laughs despite himself, but it’s strained, and Dean nudges his shoulder reassuringly. “No way is some sucker gonna be able to sneak up on me like this. I’ll be fine, promise. And hey,” he snaps his fingers, “maybe I’ll be able to get us into something good next time, huh? Like lingerie models. How’s that sound, Sammy?” He smacks the back of his hand into Sam’s stomach. “We could hunt a vengeful spirit at the Victoria’s Secret show.”

Sam rolls his eyes and says, “Yeah, ‘cause that sounds like our luck.” Then he bites at his lip for a second, but eventually ends up folding like a cheap suit. “Fine,” he grumbles. “Stay here. I believe in you or whatever.” Then he jabs a finger under his brother’s nose. “But just know that if you die, you’ll never get to drive the Impala again.”

Dean winces. “Whoa. Low blow, man.”

“I’m just saying. Don’t get your stupid ass murdered.”

“Yeah, okay. You have my word.” Dean scratches at his nose. “I swear over my car, alright?”

“ _Wow_.”

“Shut up.” Dean tosses his crutch back at him and stands. “C’mon, princess. Let’s get you packed for Mommy’s house.”

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  

“Change of plans,” a voice barks out across the hall.

Sam glances up from cramming Alex’s things into the duffel bag he’d found under his bunk, to see Sergeant Palmer standing by the doorway to the barracks, stiff as a board. He pulls off a salute, lightning quick, then stands at attention as a second officer assertively steps in beside him. Sam glances over the stars lined up across the guy’s shoulders. General, then.

The man is African American, with a steely gaze and features so craggy they could have been carved out of the face of a cliff. He skims his gray eyes around the room until they land on Alex’s overly-enthusiastic blonde friend. “Deville. Women’s barracks. Now.” His voice is flint and ice, just as stony as the rest of him.

And Deville—a name that Sam is glad to finally be able to put to the face—immediately obeys, snapping off a deferential salute and practically scurrying out the door.

The general clears his throat and looks over the room again. “There’s been an incident over by the rifle range,” he booms. “Until further notice, and pending our own internal investigation, no one will be authorized to cross the base’s perimeter. No one enters,” he fixes his gaze to Sam, “and no one _leaves_.” Then he’s back to the rest of the recruits. “Is that understood?”

There’s a resounding chorus of “Sir, yes, sir,” and the general nods once, before turning on his heel and exiting the way he came.

Palmer remains by the door, and he eyes Sam unpleasantly before tensely making his way over. “You are to remain here, in the men’s barracks,” he orders. “Or at the mess hall. You will not be participating in basic training with the others. You will not be seen in or around any of the designated weapons ranges. You will cooperate with any officer who speaks to you, and you will stay out of legal and physical harm for the entire duration of your detainment here.” Palmer lifts a distasteful eyebrow. “Clear?”

“Crystal,” Sam answers. And Palmer doesn’t even grace him with a second look before he’s out the door after his superior officer.

“So, I totally get why that guy hates me,” Dean drawls from behind him. “But what’s his beef with you?”

Sam lets out a huff and leans back against his brother’s shoulder. “They probably think I’m gonna sue for negligence. Palmer’s been painfully courteous with me ever since the drive over here. Bet you anything the brass told him to play nice.”

Dean hums thoughtfully. “You think he has to be nice to me too? Wonder how far I can run with that.”

Sam chuckles and shakes his head. “Dude, the instant we get kicked, you’re gonna make this poor kid’s life a living hell. Seriously, what did you even _do_ to piss the sergeant off so badly?”

Dean nervously rubs at the back of his neck. “Uh, Lorraine didn’t tell you?”

“What, the nurse? She may have mentioned something about ‘Liberace at a pride parade’.” He gives his brother a once-over. “I didn’t really want to ask.”

“Yeah.” Dean claps him on the shoulder. “I think that’s for the best.” He leans down and grabs hold of the duffel Sam had been stuffing full, swinging it up and back onto the bed. “So, looks like this was a complete waste of our time.”

Sam smiles and watches his brother pull handfuls of clothing back out. “Yeah. But it looks like I’ll be here to help you catch this guy after all. Guess you can’t get rid of me that easy.” He tries not to look too excited about it. “Plus, now we’ve got another victim, so at least I’ll have a chance of pinning down a pattern.”

Dean chuckles as he shakes out the rest of the bag over Sam’s bunk. “You sound pretty eager about some poor, innocent dead guy, Sammy.”

“Oh god! Oh my _god!”_ The doors swing open, slamming against the sides of the frame as Jordan stumbles back into the barracks, white-faced and gasping. His two friends from earlier immediately spring up to catch him under his arms.

“Jordan, man, are you okay?” Cooper raises himself up, halfway off the bed where he’d been playing cards with Ocampo. “What happened?”

“Fuck you, man!” Jordan quails. “The fucking rifle range is what happened!” He jerks one of his arms out of his buddy’s hold and lurches forward until he can grasp the edge of the closest bunk.

Ocampo rises smoothly to his feet and glides over to Jordan with a concerned expression, Cooper at his heels. “General Manheim said there was an incident. Are you alright?”

“No, Ocampo, I’m not fucking alright,” Jordan bites out. Then he takes a few, deep breaths until he seems to calm a little. “His fucking face, man,” he mumbles and drops his head into his hands. 

Ocampo throws Dean a pleading look, so his brother steps forward to handle the situation. “What about his face, Jordan?” Dean asks calmly.

“It was _gone_ , Moreno!” Jordan shouts. “The fucking rifle blew it right fucking off! I mean, shit. It’s just— It’s not like the movies, y’know?”

“Jesus Christ,” Ocampo mutters quietly, then he brings a hand up to grasp at the cross around his neck.

There’s a moment of disturbing silence as everyone processes the information. And Sam speaks up when it becomes clear that no one else is going to. “How did that happen, Jordan?”

“I don’t know, man. The dude just—” He makes a choking sound, then brings his head back up to meet Sam’s eyes. “It was my rifle, and it wasn’t firing. Something was wrong with it, I don’t know. And then the guy…” He swallows, hard. “He picked it up to check, and then the thing just fucking went off! Right in his fucking face. And Sergeant Palmer went to go get the general and I just…came back here.” Jordan drops his head again, and Dean catches Sam’s eyes over the rest of the bystanders.

Sam follows his brother a few feet away—as casually as possible on a bulky crutch—until they can speak in relative privacy. “Sounds like someone messed with the firing pin,” Dean says quietly. “Remote trigger, maybe? Or a timer.” 

Sam nods. “ _If_ Jordan’s telling the truth.” He sweeps his gaze over Jordan’s two friends. Humpty and Dumpty appear to be trying to calm the hyperventilating recruit down, but aren’t succeeding much. Ocampo keeps making half-hearted attempts at comfort, and getting snarled at in return. And Cooper is just staring blankly at the floor. Sam shakes his head sadly and turns back to their hushed conversation. “They’re fucking _kids_ , man.”

Dean twists his mouth bitterly. “Yeah, well it’s gonna get a lot worse for them once they start seeing some real action. Don’t get your bleeding heart all over the floor.” He pinches his lips together. “Y’know, this puts Jordan at two out of two crime scenes.”

“Yeah, well Palmer was at both too.”

His brother shifts in place and bites at his tongue, probably to stop himself from calling Sam names. Which Sam appreciates. “Didn’t his eyes look a little bloodshot to you?”

Sam frowns, confused. “ _Your_ eyes look a little bloodshot to me. He’s stressed, Dean. Or maybe he’s just not sleeping well. What does it matter?”

“Maybe he’s an aswang,” Dean says bluntly, spreading his hands.

Sam makes a face. “Dude, come on.”

“Hey, you said it yourself, Sam. There’s a bunch of wild hogs out in the woods. So maybe Wilbur over there got a little peckish, and decided to head closer in for dinner.”

“I seriously doubt Jordan is an aswang, Dean.” There’s another stifled wail from the other side of the room and Sam condescendingly tilts his head at the blubbering. “He seems genuinely shaken to me.”

“So he took a couple classes at the local community theater,” Dean shrugs dismissively. “C’mon, you have to admit that there’s more than a little family resemblance. Kid could do an ad for bacon.”

“Real mature,” Sam says. But Dean isn’t budging, so Sam is forced to fight fire with logic. “Most aswangs take the form of dogs,” he points out.

“Yeah, most. But not always. The one that Dad took down in Daly City didn’t, remember? And he even says in the journal—” Dean unconsciously reaches for his imaginary breast pocket before remembering that he doesn’t have one right now. “Okay, sure,” he says, bringing his hand back to his side. “They’re usually dogs. But they can also be bats, birds,” he lifts an eyebrow, “and sometimes, even wild boars. C’mon, Sammy, you’ve read that thing back to front just as many times as I have.”

“I’m not gonna cut some guy’s head off just ‘cause you think he’s ugly, Dean,” Sam hisses under his breath.

“Then maybe it’s Ocampo. He sure looks Filipino enough.”

Sam chokes. “First off, that’s racial profiling. And secondly, it’s not either of them. If we _were_ dealing with an aswang, we’d be seeing gored victims. Y’know, tusk wounds and the like.” He waves his wrist in front of Dean’s face. “Not carefully orchestrated explosions. Or weapons sabotage.”

Dean flaps his hand around imperiously. “He’s probably just setting up the accidents to try and get to the bodies later. They’re basically ghouls anyway. Maybe you just fucked the plan up by surviving.”

Sam takes an introspective breath, then runs his thumb over his brow. “Okay, fine. I guess we could check the morgue as soon as the sun goes down. See if the corpse goes missing.” He twitches his lip as he thinks about it. “Or if _pieces_ of it go missing.”

“ _I’ll_ go check out the morgue.” His brother holds up a hand. “No offense, dude, but you said it yourself,” Dean reminds him with an apologetic look. “You should probably hold off on any of the heavy lifting until you’re a little less,” he gestures vaguely, “127 Hours. And that crutch ain’t exactly stealthy.”

“Fine,” he mutters.

“Fine.” Dean turns to glance at the entryway, as if he can see the setting sun through the very walls. “You just keep an eye on Porky. If he _is_ an aswang, he’ll try and skedaddle the minute it gets dark.”

“Yeah, alright,” Sam grumbles. “I’ll try and make sure no one leaves.” He looks back at the group still huddled around Jordan. “I doubt anyone’s gonna be in the mood for a light stroll anyway.”

Dean grins and claps him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit, Sammy.” He clicks his tongue and heads for the exit, calling behind him, “I’ll be back in a few.” And then he’s gone, doors thumping closed on his trailing shadow.

Sam stands there for a moment, unsure of how he should proceed in light of the tense situation. He flicks his gaze back to the recruits as he thinks over the best approach. Ocampo and Cooper have mostly given up on any attempts at solidarity with Jordan and his goons, and are glancing at each other, awkwardly hanging back. So Sam hops over to join them, rounding off the group now that Dean and Deville are elsewhere.

Cooper spares him a look. “You okay, baby Moreno? That’s some pretty crazy shit, huh?” He exhales harshly, vibrating his lips, then does a quick double-take once he notices that Dean is gone. “Where’d your brother go?”

Sam clears his throat. “Uh, he went to go talk to Palmer about…” Fuck, what was the acronym he had mentioned earlier? “…something.” He shrugs to cover the obvious lie. “Said he’d be back in a couple hours.” Cooper nods in subdued acceptance, but Ocampo is just gazing off into the distance. And he looks pretty wrecked. So Sam ducks his head to catch his attention. “Hey, man. What’s up?”

Ocampo stares at him balefully. “Some poor guy just died horribly. I didn’t even know him, but…” He shakes his head dejectedly. “He could have been the nicest guy in the world, y’know? It’s not fair.” Then he pauses once he remembers who he’s talking to. “I guess you know that more than me though,” Ocampo says sadly, glancing Sam over. “It should’ve been anyone but you, baby Moreno.” Then his lips tug up, despite the solemn moment. “I mean, it at _least_ could have been Cooper.”

“Hey! Fuck you, man,” Cooper protests, but they’re both laughing at the obvious ribbing. “I could kick your ass with _no_ arms.”

Sam spots his opening and jumps back in, trying to steer the conversation back to the case at hand. “It is weird though, right?” he prompts. “These things happening right after the other. The accidents.” Cooper and Ocampo look at each other and shrug. “I mean, you guys haven’t noticed anything else, have you?” Sam asks. “Anything weird?”

Cooper scrunches his face up as he thinks, then shakes his head. But Ocampo’s eyes flick to Sam’s for a split second. And Sam can just make out the tiniest spark of fear. Cooper smacks Ocampo’s arm lightly. “The only weird thing I’ve noticed is Ocampo _actually_ staying home from church today. Just so he could see you,” he coos, batting his lashes. Cooper laughs at his own joke, but Ocampo doesn’t lift his eyes from the floor, breathing too quickly. Too shallowly. He’s definitely seen something.

“What about you, man?” Sam gives Ocampo his best earnest stare. His official ‘C’mon and tell me about all the freaky shit’ look. _Have you been experiencing any cold spots recently? Noticed the smell of sulfur? Yes, of course these are standard questions._

But Ocampo just glances back at Cooper, before dropping his gaze. “Uh, no,” he says quietly, the tip of his tongue swiping out to wet his lips. “No.”

And that’s that. For whatever reason, Ocampo won’t open up in front of the other recruits. Which means Sam is going to have to ease him into it. “Hey, Cooper,” he calls out. “Do you think you could do me a favor? I could really use some more pain pills, but Sergeant Palmer doesn’t want me leaving the barracks.” He shrugs self-consciously. “Do you think you might be able to find some?”

And Cooper hops to, just like Sam had been hoping. “Sure thing, baby Moreno,” he announces. “I think I’ve got some in my bag. Anything you need.” He practically skips back to his bunk—service with a smile—and starts rifling through his things.

Now he’s got Ocampo alone, but the kid still looks too shaken up for the direct approach. So Sam goes for subtle. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

Ocampo blinks up at him, but nods. “Shoot.”

“Why did you even sign up for basic training?” Sam raises a friendly eyebrow. Just curious. No pressure here. “You really don’t seem like the type.”

Ocampo’s lips stretch into a rueful smile. “I’m not, man. You know that. It’s just—” He tugs at his cross absentmindedly. “There’s a whole ton of evil in the world, y’know? And if we don’t stop it, then who will?”

Sam chuckles quietly. “You sound like my brother.”

“Nah.” Ocampo makes a face. “Moreno would say something like, ‘My papi is gonna look down, and he’s gonna _know_ just how badass I can be.’” He laughs at his own impression. “Don’t you think?”

“Uh, yeah,” Sam says warmly. “I guess.” He glances back at Cooper, who looks like he’s getting closer to completing Sam’s arbitrary quest, which means he has to move faster. “Speaking of evil,” he says, officially out of time for subtlety. “You seemed kinda spooked just now. When I mentioned weird stuff.” Ocampo flinches. Nothing blatant, but just enough that Sam can pick it up. _Yahtzee_. “You haven’t seen anything, have you?” he asks, playing up his innocent voice.

Ocampo gives him a good, long look and worries the corner of his lip between his teeth. He takes a deep breath, hesitantly opens his mouth—and then Cooper comes bounding back up between them, gleefully clutching his prize. And Ocampo’s mouth snaps shut, tighter than drum. Sam thanks an overeager Cooper, who’s holding out the pills like a retriever after a successful game of fetch, but it’s too late. The moment has passed, and Ocampo refuses to budge. No matter what Sam tries, he doesn’t say another word for hours.

Deville manages to sneak back into the men’s barracks a little bit after nightfall, and Sam decides that he’s even _less_ likely to get Ocampo to open up with the added company. So instead, he focuses on keeping an eye on Jordan. He mostly stays curled up in his corner at first. But as the minutes tick by, Jordan eventually manages to scrounge up the shreds of his obnoxious ego and stick them all back together. He’s back to his unpleasant self in no time, and sneering at Sam whenever he thinks he can’t see. But he hasn’t left the room once, and Dean’s (already pretty flimsy) aswang theory is looking weaker and weaker with each passing second. And despite Jordan’s best (and numerous) attempts to rile one of the other recruits into a fistfight, absolutely nothing of any interest happens for the rest of the evening. Sam is about willing to light one of the beds on fire, just for the sake of something to do, when Dean bursts back through the doors, breathing heavily and making a beeline directly for him. 

“You were right,” he reluctantly admits before he even quits moving. “Stiff’s still there. Which means no monsters on this one.” Dean stops in front of Sam. “Humans, man,” he groans. “I’ve always said it. Fucking crazy.” Then he rocks back on his heels, rubbing both hands over his face. “And it is a _bitch_ of a hike down to that morgue. Plus, we’re back to absolutely no leads. Which is just friggin’ fantastic.”

“Well…” Sam interrupts, mostly just to calm him down. “Not exactly. If Jordan’s not the culprit, then he was most likely the intended target. Both times.”

“Great,” Dean mutters sarcastically. “So we just gotta find anyone on the base who could possibly have a vendetta against the U.S. Army’s most annoying dickbag. That should be easy.” He lets out a breath and wipes the back of his hand through the sweat on his forehead. “Dude, I’m not sure we’re on the right track with this one. So far, this thing has always dropped us right into the orbit of the bad guy. Why would it be some random this time?”

Sam sighs tiredly. His stupid hand-that-doesn’t-exist is starting to hurt again, and even the fistful of Cooper’s pain pills that he’d swallowed earlier isn’t helping much. “I don’t know what to tell you, Dean. No one’s left the room since you’ve been gone. And Jordan and the sergeant were the only ones at the site of both incidents.” He pins his brother with a look. “But since you keep insisting that Palmer’s innocent, random is all we’ve got to go on.” He lifts an eyebrow. “Unless you want to rethink your position on Sergeant No-Alibi?”

“I’m telling you, Sam, it’s not him,” Dean grunts, stubborn as ever.

“Awesome,” he says sardonically. “Then I guess you get to go out and investigate some more.” Dean makes a pitiful whining noise and gives him a pleading look, but Sam just gestures exaggeratedly at his own body. “What do you want from me, Dean? It’s not like I can go out and help.” His brother falls back onto the bed with an exhausted groan and Sam reluctantly takes pity on him. “You want to wait until tomorrow? Get some rest first?”

“No,” Dean grumbles, face smushed into the cotton. “Better to finish it before another corpse pops up.” He flops onto his back. “Saving lives and all that.” Then he pauses and pushes himself up on one arm, fixing Sam with a concerned stare. “You sure you’re good here by yourself? I really don’t like running around out there with no way of contacting you.”

Sam rolls his eyes at his brother’s needless overprotectiveness. “Dude, I’ve been bored out of my skull here. The most interesting that happened while you were gone was Ocampo actually beating Deville at cards. Seriously, I’m fine.” He pokes at Dean’s leg with his knee. “I bet you’re not even really worried,” he grins. “You’re just stalling ‘cause you don’t want to have to hike all the way out there again.”

“You’re heading out again?” Cooper asks, apparently having overheard the end of their conversation (which is something Sam _really_ needs to be more careful about in the future). He tilts his head and frowns. “You literally just got back. Did something happen during your meeting with Palmer?”

Dean spares Sam a brief glance, quickly picking up on the lie. “Uh, no. Just had to come back here and grab something.” He flits his gaze around until it lights on some of the hospital insurance paperwork still sticking out of Alex’s duffel. He snatches a handful and waves the papers in Cooper’s face. “See, all good. Now I just gotta go run it back down again.” He winces at his own use of the word ‘run’, and Sam has to stifle a laugh at his brother’s expense.

But Ocampo is a better man than Sam, and he throws Dean a sympathetic look. “Hey, Moreno,” he says tentatively. “Do you want some water or something before you head back out? Because you kind of look like you’re about to keel over.”

Sam thinks Dean looks like he’d much rather have a beer (or anything over 10 proof), but he nods all the same. And Ocampo scrounges through his bag until he finds his canteen. He tosses it to Dean, who catches it easily and takes a long couple of swigs, before throwing it back.

Dean runs a hand over his sweaty hair and then he drags himself back to standing, fistful of papers still clutched in his hand. “Alright, heading back out now,” he grumbles. “Awesome.” He takes a few steps toward the doors, then pauses right in front of Sam. “You keep an eye on Jordan,” he says under his breath. Then he raises a preemptive hand to halt any protests. “I’m serious, man. Watch yourself.” He gives Sam one more solemn look, then turns to the exit with a grimace. “Alright, I’ll be back in a million fucking years or something. Don’t wait up.” Then he makes his way through the doors again, dragging his feet every step of the way.

Deville makes a facetiously sympathetic noise at Dean’s pathetic retreat and Sam laughs, turning to join in on her joke. But instead, he ends up face-to-face with a terrified Ocampo. White as a fucking sheet. The others don’t seem to notice a thing, still good-naturedly ribbing ‘Moreno’ behind his back, but Sam is stuck on the recruit’s horror-blanched expression. He frowns. There’s no reason for Ocampo to suddenly freak out about nothing. Hell, they hadn’t even been talking about the accidents this time. But then Sam suddenly gets it. Dean’s parting words, intended for his ears only but maybe not quite quiet enough. _“Keep an eye on Jordan. Watch yourself.”_

Ocampo must have overheard.

Sam moves into the kid's field of vision, slow enough not to spook him any more than necessary, and gives him a concerned look. “Hey, man,” he says softly. “You alright?”

Ocampo’s eyes snap up to meet his. “Uh, yeah.” He glances over his shoulder at the other recruits. “Of course I’m fine, I—” His words trail off, dying as they fall from his lips, and he slams his eyes shut. “No, actually,” he whispers brokenly, and Sam ushers him a few steps away from the others as best he can. A modicum of privacy.

“It’s Jordan. Isn’t it?” he says grimly.

And Ocampo gazes up at him in disbelief. “How did you know?”

Sam curses under his breath. Looks like Dean’s aswang theory has some merit after all, but it’s too late to call his brother back now. Sam risks a glance at Jordan in the corner. He looks just as sour and pissed as ever (and Dean was absolutely right about the resemblance thing)…but he hadn’t gone off after the corpse. Why? Sam furrows his brow. He must not have wanted to draw any attention to himself. And after his impromptu little performance earlier today, a disappearance _would_ be pretty suspicious.

Sam turns back to Ocampo, all business. “You did see something, didn’t you? What happened?”

The kid flinches slightly and glances over his shoulder nervously. “Oh _God_ ,” he moans. “Alright, I’ll tell you, but just— Let’s wait until everyone heads off to the mess hall, okay?” He swallows hard, eyes pleading. “There’s an old barn out past the Riverside trail. I think they used to use it for horses or something, and no one ever goes there. It’s quiet, so we can talk without anyone overhearing.” Ocampo lets out a faltering breath and shakes his head. “You have no idea. I thought I was going crazy, man. Never dreamed anyone would ever believe me.” 

Sam lets out an amused sigh. “Yeah, well, you’d be surprised the things I can believe.”

Ocampo stares up at him, inordinately grateful. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll head out right now. Sometimes I go there to pray, so no one will think twice. And you can follow me when everyone else leaves for dinner.”

Sam frowns. “Why don’t I just come with you?”

 _“No!”_ Ocampo hisses, pupils practically swallowed by the whites of his eyes. He glances back at Jordan in utter terror, then whispers, “He’ll get suspicious. Trust me, the only reason he hasn’t hurt anyone here yet is because he thinks he’s fooling us. Please, man,” he begs. “We’ve got to play it cool. He doesn’t know that I know, but the things I’ve seen him do—” He breaks off, choking back a whimper. _“Please.”_

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Sam places his hand on the soldier’s back, slipping into his best witness voice. “No one else is going to get hurt. I’ll come meet you in an hour or so.” He catches Ocampo’s eyes, reassuring. “And I promise Jordan won’t notice a thing.”

  

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Jordan narrows his eyes into thin slits. “What do you mean you’re not coming to dinner?”

Sam takes a breath to stall, and frantically tries to remember if aswangs can smell fear. He schools his features as best he can, patented Winchester poker face. “Not feeling great, y’know?” He gestures sheepishly to his missing leg, voice as even as he can make it. “Think I’m just gonna hang here.”

Jordan peers down at him for a long moment, assessing, then reluctantly backs down. “Well, I guess we wouldn’t want anything else happening to you on the walk over there.” He stretches his lips into what should be a smile, but Sam can’t quite bring himself to call it that. “How about I bring you something back? I’m sure they’ll make an exception, considering.”

Cooper and Deville gape at the uncharacteristic generosity, and Sam swallows around the lump in his throat. _He knows. He knows we’re onto him._ “I’m good, actually,” he says. “Seriously, don’t worry about it.”

“Hey, c’mon now,” Jordan insists. “Even Morenos gotta eat.”

Cooper makes an awkward noise and scuffs his boot against the linoleum. “Y’know, I hate to ever agree with Jordan…” Jordan spins to glare at him. “ _But_ ,” he continues, palm held out defensively. “The guy’s got a point.”

“Yeah. Cooper’s right, man,” Deville chimes in, with a much more genuine smile. “We’ll send Jordan back with something for you. Wouldn’t want your brother to be pissed at us once he gets back.” Her tone is cheerful, but makes it clear that she isn’t taking ‘no’ for an answer, and Sam feels cornered into giving her a strained nod.

“Thanks,” he says stiffly. He gives her a bloodless smile and holds completely still, trying to remain the epitome of perfect calm until they’ve completely filed out of the barracks. 

“Fuck,” Sam whispers under his breath once he’s alone. Great. Now he’s got an extremely limited window of time before Jordan comes back to find him missing, and there’s no way he’ll be able to outrun him on foot. Sam mentally berates himself for allowing Dean to go off investigating on his own. He should have listened to his stupid, overprotective brother. Sam clumsily shuffles to the doorway and peers outside, making sure the coast is entirely clear before following the trail down the other side of the hill. His only hope is that Jordan has no clue about this super secret barn he’s heading to. If Sam can make it out of sight before anyone gets back, then at least he’ll be able to meet up with Ocampo before Jordan can track him down. One and a half trained fighters against an aswang still aren’t ideal odds, but he’ll take what he can get. And maybe Ocampo’s scrappier than he looks.

Sam makes his way down the dirt trail, following Ocampo’s directions—and nearly brains himself a half dozen times. It would be almost impossible for him to make this trek in the daytime, and the suffocating darkness of late January isn’t helping in any way. It takes Sam the better part of an hour until he can finally make out the barn’s silhouette over the crest of the nearest hill, and that isn’t even counting the thirty minute head start Ocampo had on him originally. But he eventually manages to maneuver himself down the incline and into the field surrounding the rickety structure. 

The barn looks just as old and deserted as Ocampo said it would be. The cherry wood of the façade is warped and pockmarked, and the thick metal fastenings in front of the doors are caked with rust. But, despite the age-worn exterior, the planks of wood look thicker around than he’d be able to lift on his own. Sam takes a moment to offhandedly wonder how they had managed to build something so sturdy without the use of any modern machinery. He pushes his crutch into one of the bunches of tall grass tickling at his calf, and the end cap sinks into the soft dirt beneath him. It’s almost pitch black out here, and other than a few lightning bugs buzzing around the low stalks, there’s practically no light to see by.

 _“Baby Moreno.”_ The voice comes hissing out of the darkness and Ocampo’s shadow materializes around the corner of the barn. Sam almost sighs in relief once he spots the kid, and makes his way over until they’re close enough to speak at a normal volume. “Thank God you made it here,” Ocampo says. “Are you okay? Did Jordan find out?”

Sam holds out his left arm to slow down the kid’s rambling. “I think we’ll be fine. He seemed a little suspicious, but if he doesn’t know about this place then I think we’re good. He didn’t follow me,” Sam says reassuringly. “I promise.” Then he clears his throat, straight down to business. “Now, what did you see? Why do we need to hide from Jordan?”

Ocampo reaches up a nervous hand to tangle with the cord of his cross. “Because he _isn’t_ Jordan,” he whispers ominously. “Not anymore.”

Sam does his best to emanate waves of trustworthiness. “What do you mean?” he asks calmly.

“I mean, he _used_ to be. And sure, no one liked him, but he was still himself, y’know? He was still human.” Ocampo’s eyes glitter against the weak light of the stars, and Sam realizes he’s crying.

“It’s okay, Ocampo. Everything’s gonna be fine,” he says soothingly. “Now, what makes you think Jordan isn’t human?”

Ocampo lets out a terrified laugh. “Because I’ve seen him. I’ve seen _it_.” He takes a shaky breath. “Jordan isn’t human anymore,” he says, bottom lip trembling, “because he’s a _demon_.”

Shit. Sam scrapes his forehead over his shoulder. _Shit_. They hadn’t even thought of that. Either of them. Stupid. _Stupidstupid **stupid**_. He glances at the cross around Ocampo’s neck. Sam knows the prayer by heart, so they might be able to make some holy water—but that’s not gonna hold back a demon for long unless they can manage to scrawl out a devil’s trap somewhere nearby. And find some way to trick him into it long enough for an impromptu exorcism.

Sam pins Ocampo with a determined stare. “It’s gonna be okay,” he says assertively. “We can handle this.” Sam tightens his hand around the metal of his crutch until it starts to sting, letting the pain focus him. “Did you see his eyes? They were black, right? That’s how you knew?”

Ocampo frowns at him, worry lines slashed across his forehead. “What are you— His _eyes?_ No.” He shifts a step back. “What are you talking about?”

Sam pauses, uncertainty trickling up his spine. The night is silent around them, and there’s a faint smell of smoke in the distance, like someone’s been cooking on a woodfire grill. “If you didn’t see his eyes, then how did you know he was a demon?” Sam asks slowly.

The kid scoffs at the question. “Because he’s an _imposter_ ,” he says bluntly. Like Sam is being ridiculous. “He showed up one day and he was an imposter. He looked the same, but I can tell.” Ocampo's hands start shaking and he tightens them into the hem of his shirt. “I can always tell. I'm the only one who can. And that's why I have to stop them!”

Sam stares across the dark grass, stunned. Speechless. There is no monster. There is no aswang. There is no demon. There never was. It’s been this kid all along.

Just a sick kid.

Ocampo starts hyperventilating now, pacing back and forth like a caged tiger. “He had everyone fooled!” he shouts. “But not me. Not me. And I tried to stop him, I did.” His lip quivers. “But he just kept _surviving_.”

“The accidents,” Sam says numbly. “You were the one trying to kill him. Everyone else was just collateral.” The smoky smell from before is getting stronger now, prickling at the edges of Sam’s consciousness.

Ocampo scrapes a hand over his face, smearing his tears across his cheeks. “It wasn’t supposed to be you,” he whimpers. “Baby Moreno. I would _never_.” He stumbles forward, closer to Sam. “It was an accident. You have to believe me!”

Sam doesn’t move a muscle. Keeps his face impassive. Grim. “I’m sure it was,” he says evenly.

“And that’s not even the worst part!” he cries. “That’s not even it!” Ocampo brings his hands up to frantically claw over his head, his short fingernails leaving faint red lines in their wake. “He wasn’t the only demon. There was another one, so I had to lock him up.” He chokes on a broken sound. “I had to do it. To keep everyone safe.”

“Who’s in the barn, Ocampo?” Sam asks quietly, voice calm, despite the mounting dread in the pit of his stomach.

The kid shakes his head violently, like he’s trying to dislodge his own thoughts. “It wasn’t really him. It _wasn’t_. I swear!”

“Ocampo!” He raises his voice, authoritative, and loud enough to be heard over the kid’s wailing. “Who is in the barn?”

“You have to understand,” he whines plaintively. “Moreno, man. Your brother. _Jesse_.” Ocampo stares him straight in the eyes, desperate and terrified. “He’s left-handed.”

Sam’s heart freezes solid as the realization crashes over him. Ocampo offering Dean the water, thinking nothing of it. A simple gesture of kindness. Casually tossing it over so he wouldn’t have to walk all the way between the beds. 

But Dean had caught the canteen with his right.

Ocampo takes a step forward. “He’s not your brother. You have to understand.” He holds out an unsteady hand. “Baby Moreno—” He cuts himself off, then says, “ _Alex_. He’s an imposter. Another demon, just like Jordan. And we have to stop them.” His eyes are huge, dark and wet against the surrounding night. And so liquid clear that Sam can pick up the reflection of the flames in his pupils, the soft orange light playing on one side of his face. Sam frowns at the sudden illumination. That wasn’t there before. They were in the dark. He knows they were. It was pitch black.

Sam slowly, apprehensively, twists around to take in the looming wooden structure behind him…and the flickering flames slowly licking up the sides of the building. They’re everywhere, eating up the slant of the gable roof like it’s kindling and releasing thick billows of black smoke into the air. It’s on fire. The entire barn is on fire. And that wood is old. Which means it’s not treated. Which means it’s gonna go up like fucking flash paper. 

 _Dean_. Dean is in that barn, and it’s _burning_.

Ocampo gives Sam a wobbly grin, imploring. “I had to do it. We have to stop the evil, remember?”

 _“He is not evil!”_ Sam roars, his calm demeanor finally shattering under the overwhelming heaps of panic. “Jesse Moreno is not evil! _Jordan_ is not evil! No one here is evil!” He strangles the anger in his throat, tries to choke it back down. “You’re sick, Ocampo,” he says, deliberately gentle. “You’re sick and you just need some help.”

“Fuck you!” he screams through his tears. “I’m not sick! Don’t say that to me!”

“No? You’re hurting innocent people. That guy at the rifle range, remember? And _this?”_ He slices his wrist through the air between them. “You set off a fucking _bomb_ and you did this! He was your friend, Ocampo. Your _friend_ , and you’ve ruined his fucking life!” The kid falters, trembles, as he takes a few steps backward. “Please,” Sam begs. “Please, Ocampo. You need to help me get Jesse out of the barn, okay? We’ll get him out and then everything will be fine. No one else has to get hurt.”

“His life?” Ocampo rasps quietly. “His?”

Sam’s breath catches in his throat as he realizes his mistake. “Mine,” he says hoarsely. “My life, I meant to say.”

“You… You aren’t—” Ocampo stumbles as his legs almost go out on him and he catches himself against the only untouched corner of the barn. “You aren’t baby Moreno,” he whispers, aghast. “You’re an imposter.”

“Ocampo, no—”

“You’re a demon!” He scrambles forward, forcing Sam back and out into the field behind him. “You’re a demon, just like the _rest of them!”_

Ocampo pauses in front of the burning barn, chest heaving. Outlined against the light of the fire like some terrifying shadow creature. Like a _daeva_. One of the flames at his back slithers down an exterior post and catches onto the grass below. It spreads immediately, quickly blazing across the dry, winter stalks until the slow burn has turned itself into a proper wildfire, cutting off any attempt at an exit on the north side. And Sam knows he’s running out of time. That thing is going to burn to the ground and he’s running out of _time_.

“You replaced him!” Ocampo screams. “You and the one that took Moreno! How many demons are there? What are you all doing here?” He blanches, eyes widening in fear. “Is it all of them? The whole squad?” Ocampo’s lip curls in fury and he surges forward. _“How many more of you are there?”_

Sam balks at the murderous hatred scorching through Ocampo’s eyes. Dean is in ever-increasing danger and Sam’s compassionate approach clearly isn’t working fast enough. He raises his good hand slowly, palm out and non-threatening. “Hey, Ocampo,” he says slowly. “You need to calm down. It isn’t what you think, alright? I’m not going to hurt you.” But the motion is mainly a pretense to switch his crutch to his other side, and he wraps his forearm around the metal as best he can, making sure his good hand is free. Because his left may be a lost cause, but his right hook has always been damn impressive. 

And Alex Moreno’s isn’t half bad either.

He cracks the kid across the jaw so fiercely that Sam hopes he’s seeing stars. But Ocampo just shakes his head out until he’s no longer cross-eyed and roars, charging forward to curl his fingers into the collar of Sam’s t-shirt. Alex is a little bigger, a little broader than Ocampo, but not by enough, and Sam just doesn’t have the mass on the kid that he would if he was in his own body. And it really doesn’t help that his technique is rusty, unused to fighting guys in his own weight class. So he goes for unexpected.

Sam rears back and head-butts the recruit right in the nose, hard as he can. There’s a gruesome crunch, and Ocampo reels backward as thick rivers of blood jet down the lower half of his face, almost black in the flickering light. He squawks in surprise and Sam grimaces as he catches the kid again, this time with a nasty uppercut. He can feel the teeth grinding together, and Ocampo’s fingers fumble against Sam’s shirt. 

The kid lashes out wildly in defense, hands scrabbling every which way. Mostly by chance, he manages to grab hold of Sam’s crutch and rips it away, hurling it across the field behind them. And Sam lurches, catching his left forearm against the other man’s shoulder. It’s the only thing keeping him upright, and Sam knows that he needs to end this _now_. Quick and merciless, if he has any hope of surviving past tonight. He throws all of his power behind his right shoulder and heaves, hard as he possibly can, letting fly with a haymaker. And his fist connects viciously. It snaps Ocampo’s head back and stuns him something fierce, his skull lolling nerveless on his neck. But it doesn’t put him down the way it was supposed to…

And Sam knows that he’s fucked.

Ocampo clutches at the arm Sam’s using for balance and tears it off his shoulder. He digs stiff fingers into the still-healing wound and Sam’s knee buckles as the pain lances up his left arm. He lets out a hoarse yell and gropes at the attacking hand, fingertips slick with his own blood, and he yanks hard until he can hear the snap of the kid’s fingers breaking. Ocampo roars up at him through the gore coating his face, and then the fucker launches himself at Sam’s middle, knocking them both to the grass below.

They tumble over each other a few times, grappling as best they can, but Sam ends up pinned under most of the other man’s weight. He drives a ruthless kick to the inside of Ocampo’s knee and the kid screams as he falters, but he’s pulling himself back on top before Sam can do more than get his elbows underneath him. Ocampo surges back over him, broken teeth gnashing and self-righteous fury blazing from his eyes, and Sam gets a fleeting glimpse of what demons must feel like when they’re staring down the other end of Ruby’s knife. Ocampo raises his boot high and stomps down brutally on Sam’s chest, and then again, violently splintering the ribs along his left side. Sam lets out an involuntarily cry of pain and tries to roll away, but Ocampo goes straight for the poetic justice, flipping him back and bearing down hard on his good knee in revenge. Pressing down and twisting the cartilage under his heavy combat boot until Sam can hear the audible crack of his kneecap shattering. He screams again.

“ _Demon_ ,” Ocampo growls, fragments of teeth dribbling onto Sam’s chest. “That’s how you survived. You killed him!” Bloody saliva drools from the corner of his torn lip. “You killed baby Moreno and you stole him.”

“ _You’re_ killing him,” Sam shouts raggedly. “You’re killing him right now!” But it’s a stupid thing to say and Ocampo just gets more and more furious with every syllable. He lunges for Sam’s head with his non-broken hand, fingers curling around Sam’s ear and yanking like he’s trying to tear it off. And Sam has the ludicrous thought that he’s running out of pieces to lose. He tries for another head-butt (as his skull is pretty much the only part left on his body that isn’t screaming in pain), but Ocampo sees him coming this time and ducks out of the way. Then he hauls back and punches Sam in the teeth. Two jabs, in quick succession.

Ocampo gets his uninjured hand around Sam’s collar and pulls hard, dragging them back toward the raging fire before Sam’s head can even stop spinning. Sam tries to tug the kid’s fingers off, but cries out in pain as Ocampo staggers on his fucked-up knee, inadvertently jostling him. His ribs feel like they’re already on fire, and they seize up with every lumbering step as Ocampo unevenly limps his way over to the barn. He’s also jarring him on purpose now, having discovered that Sam can’t struggle for freedom while he’s wracked with constant pain.

They finally make it up onto the wooden deck and Ocampo dumps Sam on the low porch with an unnerving creaking sound. He turns to deal with the door and Sam uses the opening to try and hoist himself up, but he crumples in agony the instant he tries to put weight on his broken knee. And by the time Sam’s vision clears, Ocampo’s already got the door unlocked, grunting and sweating with exertion as he heaves the huge wooden bolt off of the latch. He crouches down to finish the job and Sam goes for one final, reckless desperation play. He growls and surges up with the last of his strength, wrapping his right hand around Ocampo’s skull and digging his thumb into the vulnerable eye socket, hard as he can. The kid shrieks and tears his head away, dark blood dripping from his ruined face, and with a spike of what must be pure adrenaline, he locks his hand around Sam’s throat and hurls him inside the smoldering deathtrap. And slams the door behind him.

The inside of the barn is almost completely alight, orange flames twining up the support beams and smoke rolling thick and dark against the rafters. Sam chokes on the acrid air and shoves his elbow over his mouth as he scans the space for Dean. At first, he can’t see anything past the intense glare of the fire and the heavy screen of smoke blotting out most of the room. His heart leaps in a brief moment of hope. Maybe Dean got out already. And he’s going for help. Or maybe he’s sneaking around to take care of Ocampo on his own. But then, Sam’s eye catches on a dark, huddled figure at the foot of one of the stables. Dean’s limbs tangled in an unconscious heap, like he’s been dropped there without a second thought. And Sam’s heart sinks once again.

He starts to head toward his brother’s slumped form, but freezes once he hears a solid thump from behind him, and the heavy creaking of a wooden door being latched. “Ocampo!” Sam slides himself up against the thick wall and pounds on the door with his good hand. “Ocampo, don’t!” There’s more scrabbling as Ocampo fiddles with the locks. “Please!” Sam calls out. “We’re not demons! Just listen to me, you don’t want to do this!” There’s a brief respite from the noise, and for one shining moment, Sam thinks that maybe he got through to the kid. But then the scraping starts up again, and Sam can clearly make out the sound of a giant crossbar sliding heavily into place—barricading them inside for good.

Sam thumps his head against the unyielding wood and indulges in one disgusting moment of self-pity. There’s no way out. It’s over. Sam failed, and he couldn’t stop the bad guy, and now they’re both fucked. He lets out a broken, pathetic excuse for a laugh against the splintered, smoke-saturated wood, and then he pushes away from the door to drag himself over to his unconscious brother.

“Dean,” Sam barks. He claps his hand to the side of Dean’s face, letting it rest against his cheek. “Hey. Dean, c’mon.” There’s no response, and Sam panics for a few seconds, checking to make sure that he’s breathing. “Wake up, man. C’mon, _please_.” He chokes back the heart trying to escape from his throat, and thumps his palm against his brother’s chest. “Dean!”

Dean snorts awake, snapping forward and then immediately wincing as he cradles a hand to the back of his own skull. “Jesus _Christ_.” He slams his eyes shut and groans thickly. “Did you get the plates of the semi that hit me?”

Sam huffs out a desperate sigh of relief and collapses against his brother, burying his face in Dean’s shoulder. “Morning, sunshine,” he mumbles into his shirt front, a tinge hysterically. “We’re going to die now. Thought you should know.”

“Dude, what are you talking about?” Dean hisses and presses his hand against his head, then brings it forward to check for blood. Apparently he doesn’t find any, because he just lifts his eyes up to blearily inspect their surroundings, waiting for the room to swim into focus, or at least make some attempt at sense. And Sam can tell the exact instant that Dean figures it out, because he goes rigid underneath him as soon as his brain kicks back online enough to realize where they are. “The fuck is—” He jolts upwards, and Sam sucks in a hitched breath as his ribs flare up on him. “What the… Sammy?” Dean asks uneasily, pulling back until he can see better. “What—” He cuts off abruptly, words stuck in his throat once he gets a full glimpse of Sam’s condition.

Sam knows what he must look like. He’s bleeding heavily from his mouth and the stump of his wrist, and he’s hunched in on himself, trying to favor his ribs. His only remaining leg is twisted awkwardly, jutting out past his broken knee, and he’s covered in dirt and who-knows-what-else from his earlier brawl. Hell, the only working part he’s got left is his right arm. And it probably doesn’t even look that much better, bruised and battered and his fingers still bloody from pounding Ocampo’s face in. He forces his lips into a weak smile, then jokes, “You should see the other guy.” And then he turns to the side and spits out a worrisome amount of blood.

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” Dean snarls. “Who did this to you? What the fuck happened?” He turns to take in the withering inferno around them. “What the _fuck_ is going on?”

“It was Ocampo,” Sam says, and then he accidentally sucks in a lungful of smoky air and starts coughing painfully. “Not an aswang,” he croaks. “Just—” He waits for his ribs to stop trying to kill him before he continues. “Just humans, man.”

His brother growls and runs his hands over Sam’s sides, carefully tender. “I’m gonna murder him,” he says darkly. “I’m gonna tear his fucking head off with my bare hands.”

“Yeah, I tried that,” Sam mumbles. “Didn’t work out so well.”

Dean takes a deep breath and wraps his arms around Sam’s back as gently as possible, lifting him away from the worst of the smoke and leaning him up against the only remaining wall that isn’t on fire. And Sam tries not to make too much noise as his bones jar against each other, as he knows that his brother is doing the best he can. “He must have come at me from behind," Dean says. “Can’t remember anything else, and my gourd feels like it’s splitting open.”

“What happened to not letting any assholes get the drop on you?” Sam asks, lips tugging up at the corner. “Your perfect abs didn’t cow him into submission?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I’m gonna let that go,” he bites out. “But only because you look like you just went ten rounds with a meat grinder.” He twists around to face the door and his expression darkens, any sense of levity draining away. Dean gives Sam one last lookover, then crawls forward. He climbs over to the door, crouching low to avoid the brunt of the smoke, and places his hands against the wood, running his fingers over the outline of the seam from the inside.

“It opens out,” Sam informs him tiredly. “But he slammed a giant bolt down over the front of it. No way you’re gonna move it, man.”

But Dean just ignores him and shoves against the door with all his strength. He grunts, straining against the wood and digging his heels into the pitted floor for leverage, but it doesn’t budge an inch.

“Dude, I told you.”

“Shut the fuck up, Sam,” Dean growls. He slams his shoulder into the heavy paneling. “I am not.” Slam. “Dying.” Slam, slam. “In a fucking _barn_.” He takes a couple of steps back and leaps at it, flinging his entire body weight at the wood. The door doesn’t move, but Dean’s shoulder definitely takes a beating. Sam half expects him to accept defeat, but Dean just changes his tactics, still determined to achieve the impossible. He turns around and gives the door a solid mule kick with the flat of his boot. It’s even less effective than the shoulder bashing, but his brother has never been one to bow to something as basic as logic.

Sam closes his eyes and leans back against his wall. He’s pushed this body to its limit—way past its limit, if he’s being honest—and now that the adrenaline rush is over, every single bit of energy is draining from him like a sieve. He listens to his brother kick and curse at the door, and wishes he was able to do something to help. They probably wouldn’t be able to move it even if they were both shoving at it, but Sam would try anyway, if he could.

 _We’re gonna die in here_ —an extremely unhelpful portion of his brain says. _This is it. This is how it ends, for real this time. We’re going to burn to death and there’s no escape._ Another, equally unhelpful, part of his brain says— _Seems appropriate._

“So Ocampo was just a regular, ol’ nutbag, huh?” Dean pants out in between forceful kicks. “That’s kind of a bummer. Anti-climactic or something, y’know?”

“He thought we were demons,” Sam chuckles ruefully, then he opens his eyes back up to watch Dean assault the barn some more. “Kind of ironic, I guess.”

“Demons? Now why in the fuck would he think that?” His brother scrubs his sleeve across his forehead. “Shouldn’t the army fucking screen these people?”

“He’s probably suffering from Capgras syndrome,” Sam says weakly. "It would be hard to diagnose if he wasn’t presenting with symptoms.”

“What?”

“It’s a delusional disorder where—”

“ _No_.” Dean holds up a hand. “You know what? I don’t fucking care.” He turns back to the door and gives it another fierce kick, then shouts at the thick wood. “Fire doesn’t cleanse _demons_ , asshat! But hey, if we were rugarus, you’d have done a bang-up job. Really terrific!”

Sam’s blood suddenly turns to ice in his veins, and he gapes at his brother past the sizzling and popping of the blackening support posts. “What did you just say?” he asks, voice trembling.

Dean squints back at him. “Asshat?”

“No,” Sam whispers incredulously. “You said _cleanse_.”

Dean’s face bleeds free of color the instant he catches Sam’s drift. “Sam, no. That doesn’t— There’s no way.”

“Dean, it makes sense.” He pushes off the wall the best he can, balancing himself on his right knee and blanching at the pull of his shattered ribs. “The fire didn’t work back in Michigan because the curse was still attached to Bryant. It would have burned him as well. But from inside…” He coughs raggedly through the wall of smoke between them, then rattles on, picking up steam. “It’s _fire_ , Dean,” he croaks. “And we’re inside the curse. If it burns us, maybe it’ll burn the sword too. It’s our best chance. Hell, it’s our only chance.”

“Sam, are you out of your goddamned mind?” Dean shouts. “It’ll kill us.”

Sam dramatically flings his arms out to the sides. “Would you just wake up already?” he yells. “We’re going to die anyway! We’ve got two choices here, Dean, because there’s no way we’re getting out of this barn. So we can burn, or we can fucking _asphyxiate!”_ His voice already feels seared raw, but he pushes on. “Seriously, man. Go ahead and take your fucking pick. But only one of those options has the slightest chance of fixing this _whole damn thing.”_

Dean lets out a feral growl and spins back around to the door. “ _Fuck that._ There’s another way.” He scrapes his hand over his jaw, eyes flicking frantically back and forth. “We can wait for the fire to burn a little hotter,” he says desperately. “Let it weaken one of the walls. Then I’ll be able to smash through.”

“Dean, we’d die of smoke inhalation way before that happened. This whole, stupid barn is thicker than goddamn Alcatraz.”

“Fine!” Dean yells. “Then we’ll think of something else! We can’t be stuck here, okay? We _can’t_.” He whirls around and kicks his boot against the uncompromising wood, over and over again. “We’re not gonna die in some _motherfucking_.” Thud. “ _Stupid_.” Thud. “ _Goddamn_. Hick fucking _barn!”_ He reels back and lets fly, smashing his foot against the door with every bit of his strength, and Sam can hear the painful snap from all the way across the room. _“Jesus fuck!”_ Dean snarls, legs buckling underneath him until he’s sagging back against the doorjamb with a pained whimper. 

Sam cringes in empathy as he watches his brother clutch at his own ankle, and violently hates the fact that he’s stuck at the other end of the barn, completely useless. And if he thought he’d be able to make the trek over to Dean without collapsing, he’d have tried in a second. But this needs to be over now. They’re both shaking themselves apart, and Sam just can’t watch it anymore.

Dean takes a slow, rattling breath and tries to bore a hole into the ground at his feet with his gaze alone. He’s silent for a very long time. And when he finally brings his head up, his voice is devastatingly low. “We’re gonna kill these kids, Sammy,” he says, and the serrated edges of his words rip through the flames like thrown daggers. “We’re gonna fucking _murder_ a couple of kids.”

“They’re already dead, Dean,” he whispers sadly.

“Innocents. Back in Oregon, we said the ‘line’ was gonna be innocents.” 

“Yeah, well. You say a lot of things,” Sam says darkly. His mouth twists bitterly. “We’ve killed innocent people before.”

Dean yanks his head up to glare at Sam. “Only because getting booted up to Heaven is better than playing prom dress for some demon,” he snaps.

“Dean, I’m not blaming you. I just—” Sam’s shoulders slump exhaustedly and he sways back into the wall behind him. He reaches out a weak hand. “Please,” he begs brokenly. “Dean, please. I can’t—”

And his brother is already struggling to his feet before Sam can even finish the thought in his own mind. Dean hisses through his teeth every time he accidentally puts any pressure on his ankle, but he limps across the scorching inferno like a man possessed. Like some breathtaking avenging angel blazing his way through Hell, wings silhouetted against the flickering flames. And Sam suddenly realizes that he would. Like some piece that’s been rattling around his head for too long has finally clicked into place. Dean would walk through Hell for him, without even flinching. He effectively has already. He would bleed, sure, and he would burn. But he would drag himself across the jagged shards of ice and the boiling lakes until the soles of his feet tore away completely, raw and blistered. Until he was nothing but ash, held together in the rough shape of a man through sheer determination alone. And he wouldn’t break a sweat. He wouldn’t even stumble.

Dean finally makes it within grabbing distance and Sam practically crumples into his arms, smiling at the pained, “ _Jesus_ , dude,” his brother spits out under his breath. Dean crashes to his knees under Sam’s weight, and Sam ignores the stinging agony emanating from every centimeter of his body to wrap his arms tight around Dean’s shoulders, pressing his cheek snug against his brother’s.

“It’ll work,” he whispers into Dean’s ear. And Dean brings his own arms up to brace Sam against his chest. “It’ll work. I swear.”

“And what if it doesn’t, Sam?” Dean pushes him back and cups an ash-streaked hand to his face, choking back a dismal sound. “What if it just doesn’t work like that?”

Sam doesn’t have a thing to say in response. Not a single word. He just gazes deep into his brother’s unfamiliar brown eyes and gives him a halting, bittersweet smile. If it doesn’t work, then Sam will wake up clinging to the back of a beat-up, old truck just outside of Crossett in the August of 1999. And a twenty-year-old Dean, or a thirty-four-year-old Dean will turn to him, sun glinting off the bite of his grin, and say, “Tuck and roll, kiddo.” And they’ll jump off the back of the bed and tumble into the overgrown stalks of tall, itchy grass. And Dean will laugh, his deep voice ringing out under a cloudless sky, and he’ll lean over Sam with those beautiful green _(green, they’re supposed to be green)_ eyes and Sam will remember the very first time he realized he was in love with his brother.

Or maybe Sam will wake up at the St. Patrick’s Day party at Zach’s old frat house, Sophomore year, and he’ll be meeting Jess for the first time. The shine of her curls as she got caught in one of Zach’s tacky hanging decorations, blushing even as she laughed at herself. And he can punch Brady square in the jaw, and then haul Dean upstairs. Show him how beautiful Stanford’s campus used to look from the balconies of Kappa Sigma’s upper floors.

Sam drags his eyes up to meet his brother’s stare, and only the severity of the moment stops him from making a joke about Romeo and Juliet.

But Dean seems to get it anyway. Because he lets out a broken, caustic laugh and hangs his head between his shoulders. And Sam thinks he hates the defeated sound of it more than anything else he’s ever heard in his entire life. Dean sighs, low and long, and curls a hand around the back of Sam’s neck to tug him down to his level. Pulling Sam down to him until he can leave a slow, tender kiss against his forehead. And then another for good measure. “Okay, Sammy,” he rasps wetly. It’s barely a whisper against his skin. “Okay.”

“It’s gonna hurt.” Sam’s voice is so quiet, he’s not even sure if his brother can hear him. “Skin, it— Uh…skin _melts_.” Dean’s eyes painfully shutter down the way they always do once Sam starts talking about the Cage, and he twists around to half-heartedly beat his open palm against the wall behind them. Sam shuts his eyes against the tantrum and forces himself to continue. “Don’t inhale, that’ll just make it worse. It’s superheated air, so your throat will close up and you’ll suffocate.” He gulps in a couple of shaky breaths as the memories threaten to overtake him. “It’s easier if you just let your body…go into shock. Sometimes he’d let me go into shock. Here—” Sam swallows. “Here, I think we’ll go into shock.” He glances up at his brother and wonders if the instructions are even necessary. Dean might know exactly what happens to a burning body. Or maybe not. His specialty _had_ been blades.

“I can handle pain, Sam.” Dean is still blankly staring at the soot-scorched wall, and his voice is even. Detached. Emotionless.

“Yeah.” Sam lets his head hang between his shoulders. “Yeah, I know.”

Dean lets out a miserable laugh and turns back to face him. “Goddammit, Sammy. I know these dudes are brothers and you’re all pissy about it, but since they’re gonna fucking die anyway—”

And Sam doesn’t even wait for Dean to finish his sentence before he’s launching himself at his brother’s mouth. Desperate and greedy. Every single tether of his control over the past few days snaps at once, and he _devours_ Dean, hating—loathing—the fact that this could be their very last kiss on the mortal plane and these aren’t even his brother’s real lips. Dean smells wrong and the shape of his jaw is wrong underneath Sam’s fingertips and Sam can’t taste anything except for the blood from his own busted lip. But it _is_ Dean’s soul in that body. It absolutely is. Because he tilts his head softly to the left, lips brushing passionately over Sam’s, thorough and tender. He brings a steady hand up to cradle the back of Sam’s head, adamantly and insistently pressing him into the kiss from both sides. He kisses Sam like he’ll never get the chance again. Just like he always does. Just like he always has. And that's more familiar than any stupid, perfect body part.

Dean reluctantly breaks away, pulling back to gasp for breath in the rapidly decreasing oxygen. His face is unevenly splotched with smoke and charcoal, and sweat is beading all along his hairline. His uniform front is practically drenched with it. He gazes deep into Sam’s eyes, committing this last moment to memory and desperately searching for something meaningful to say.

So Sam beats him to the punch. “I’m pretty sure ‘rugaru’ is also the plural.”

Dean blinks at him. Confused. His mouth opens and closes a few times, and then he scrunches up his face, and says, “What?”

“You said ‘rugarus’, before. But I’m pretty sure it’s ‘rugaru’. Y’know, just like the singular.”

His brother pinches the bridge of his nose, like he’s got a bad headache, and stares at him in disbelief. “Really, Sam?” he snipes. “Now? Really?”

“Go ahead,” Sam laughs weakly. “Die with bad grammar. See if I care.”

There’s a moment of silent, motionless disbelief. And then Dean is laughing too, shoulders quivering and tears at the corners of his eyes. Because at this point, what else is there to do? Dean shakes his head, then grabs Sam’s arm and carefully hooks it over his shoulder. “C’mon, you fucking lunatic,” he says. “Let’s get your gimp ass up so we can go kill ourselves.”

Sam winces as Dean pulls them both upright. Then he tilts his head at his brother’s ankle and grumbles, “Look who’s talking.”

They stand there, facing the roaring blaze whipping around their heads and the stinging smoke clogging their lungs, and Sam almost cries at the familiarity. Every single part of his body aches and stings, and he’s about to be burned alive and all he can think is— _Maybe I didn’t get out after all._ But Dean’s shoulder is solid under his hand, and Dean's breathing is steady against his side, and Sam realizes that this couldn’t possibly be Hell. Hell would never be this kind.

Dean catches his gaze, questioning, and Sam nods. This will work. He knows it will. Dean staggers forward, his bad ankle wobbling under their combined weight, and right before they take the final leap, Sam has a fleeting glimpse of a thought. A horrible, monstrous, selfish flash of a thought. He thinks— _At least Alex won’t have to die without Jesse._ At least these poor kids won’t have to face living out the rest of their existences without their brother. Because Sam has lived that very nightmare far too often. And he would rather painfully burn to death any day of the week.

Sam curls his right arm around his brother’s shoulders, clutching as tightly as he possibly can and ignoring the searing agony screaming from every single one of his nerve endings. But it’s okay, because Dean’s hand is crushing the bone of Sam’s hip right back. And as long as Dean is there, holding on tight, Sam knows that he can handle any amount of pain. He sweeps his gaze over the raging hell storm surrounding them and flinches against the oppressive heat that’s roasting the skin of his face. Sam takes one last breath of sour, smoke-filled air. He takes one last desperate, terror-stricken moment to steel his nerves. He turns his head and takes one last lingering, trembling press of his brother’s lips. And then they tumble forward into the fire. Together.

It burns like coming home.

 


	9. Leaving Behind That Empty Feeling Inside

It burns.

Oh god, does it burn. An inferno is _blazing_ all around him and everything is pain and Dean needs to scream. He needs to _scream_ , but Sam told him not to open his mouth, he can’t open his mouth because somehow that will make it worse and Dean can’t remember why—the info scorched clean from his brain along with the rest of his skin which must be mostly charcoal by now—but Sam had said not to. Sam had said not to, which means it’s important, so Dean can’t.

The searing heat lasers itself down to an excruciating pinpoint of agony, sliding down his arm and magnifying, and somehow the pain feels even more real now. Sharper. Hotter. And Dean wants to cry at the unfairness of it all because he thought it really fucking hurt before, but it’s worse now that the torture has focused itself to such a relatively narrow area. The fire must be sizzling the flesh from his bones and Dean can’t hold back anymore. He can’t keep his jaw clamped shut or his scream caged behind his teeth because his _hand_. His hand is on _fire_ and he can’t hold the suffering in any longer, no matter how hard he tries. So Dean screams.

And then he sucks in a lungful of clean, cool air. 

His eyes snap open at the startling discrepancy, and then his fingers violently spasm themselves apart, away from the blistering heat at the center of his palm. There’s a sharp, clattering sound as something hits the cement under his shoulder, and Dean’s hand throbs once, and then he gulps in another greedy breath of pure, sweet oxygen. And then another. And then one more, just to be sure. 

He blinks—more than a little confused—at the cool, stale air of the armory around him until it starts to make sense, because _somehow,_ they did it. They’re back. They’re back and Dean can hear his brother let out a low groan of pain from beside him, and when he looks down at himself, he’s wearing his own shirt. The blue plaid one that’s still got a tiny mustard stain on it from when they stopped for hot dogs at that stand in Shawnee. Dean lets out a breathless laugh, thrumming with impossible exhilaration, and pats his hands down over his sides.  _His_ sides. Normal and familiar and just the slightest bit less impressive than the ones he was sporting back in Georgia. He laughs again, a shade too close to delirious. His burned right hand stings as he drags it over the layers of fabric, but who the fuck _cares?_

Sam groans again and Dean frantically scrambles to his knees, everything else instantly forgotten. He boots the still-flaming sword as far away from them as he physically can with a rough scrape of his heel and a low, scathing obscenity, and then clambers over to his brother’s side, nearly tripping and braining himself on the concrete in his haste to reach Sam.  _Sam_. Real Sam. Actual Sam.  _Sammy_.

Dean lunges forward and catches himself heavily over his brother’s body, back bowed over Sam’s torso and clumsily straddling his thighs. Sam is grimacing in pain and his eyes are shut tight, but it’s him. It’s _him_ , with his ridiculous sideburns and his chiseled jaw and his freaking overgrown everything else. Dean reaches out to twine his fingers through the strands of Sam’s stupid, girly hair, needing to touch, terrified that this is just another one of the universe’s cruel jokes…and then Sam slowly opens his eyes. He blinks a few times, dazed and disoriented, and then the pinched expression dissolves away from his face and he lets out a tiny, hitched gasp.

“ _Dean?”_ he breathes in disbelief, his hazel eyes gorgeous and familiar and suddenly brimming with unshed tears. His voice is high and tight, vocal cords taut with restrained emotion, and he sounds so young all of a sudden, like a damn kid again. Sam brings a trembling hand up to trace Dean’s cheekbone, tentative, like he half expects him to disappear underneath his fingertips. “It worked,” he says. “It worked, I told you it would work.” And Dean lets out a wrecked sound of his own as Sam finally reaches up to desperately grope at his face with both hands. 

His hands. His goddamn beautiful, _beautiful_ hands.  _Hands_. Plural. Two of the suckers, just like there should be. There’s a bright red burn patched across the meat of Sam’s left palm, swollen and shiny, from where it’d been wrapped around the hilt of the burning sword. Dean grabs at it with his own and leans his face against the angry mark, pressing a fierce kiss to the worst of the damage. Because Sam’s hand may be a little fucked up right now, but at least it’s goddamned _attached_ to the rest of him. And because Dean’s currently got a matching brand on his right. And, maybe also a little bit because it’s Dean’s favorite hand, the one with the faint, jagged scar still running across the middle.  _Stone number one_ —his mind echoes.

Dean roves his gaze over Sam’s face, soaking in and memorizing and cataloguing every single feature that he’d missed so desperately. Sam’s lips, soft and parted. His nose. The sweep of his brow. His stupid fucking mole. Dean had _forgot_. How could he have possibly forgot? He presses the tip of his thumb to it in a silent apology and lets the rest of his fingers curl lightly around the hinge of Sam’s jaw. Sam’s got another one on his chin, though Dean can’t make it out through his brother’s stubble. But he lets out a heartsick laugh and leans down to press a long kiss to it anyway. And then another to the one on his neck. His forehead. The corner of his mouth. Sam is making these desperate, needy little noises underneath him and Dean’s contemplating flipping his brother over to get at the one between his shoulder blades before Sam lets out a broken, wet laugh and grabs at his face again.

“ _Dean_ ,” he says once more, so fucking tenderly. And an embarrassing whimper escapes Dean’s lips as he closes his eyelids and sinks into his brother’s touch. But he stiffens when Sam sucks in an anxious breath. “No. No, don’t.” Sam fumbles over Dean’s eyes until he opens them, grumbling as his brother’s clumsy fingers almost put one out. “Sorry,” Sam flushes. “Just— Don’t do that, okay? I need to— I need…” He hesitates, quiet and embarrassed. “To see you.” Sam swallows hard, and then starts rambling. “ _Please_. I’m sorry, I know it’s stupid. I just…” And Sam suddenly looks so much like he did back in the barn. Terrified and sorry and impossibly small. Dean’s beautiful little brother, perfect and precious and in need of his fierce, undying protection, no matter how old he gets. Dean knows that Sam would punch his lights out if he could hear the gist of his thoughts, so he doesn’t say a word. Just cuts through the distance between them and kisses his brother like it’s their last day on Earth, and Sam surges up into him in response. He’s wrapped around him so tight that Dean can’t breathe, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care because who needs to breathe anyway when he has all he could ever want, right here under his hands?

Dean eventually has to pull back from Sam’s insistent grip and he shifts his head slightly to glance at the still-smoldering heap of metal that was—up until extremely recently—a gigantic pain in his ass. “Well,” he says a little regretfully, “there goes our nest egg in Aruba.”

“Good fucking riddance,” Sam growls. And then he yanks Dean back down again, assaulting him with his tongue like he’s got a personal grudge against it being in his own mouth. 

Sam is a quiet guy. He just is, always has been. Dean’s silent shadow at every witness interrogation or demonic torture session. But not now. Not here. Not like this. Sam is always so surprisingly vocal when it comes to sex, just ridiculously fucking _noisy,_ and Dean wants to swallow every gorgeous sound he makes. He pushes back hard and digs his fingers into Sam’s back, the mood immediately shifting to something savage and frenzied. – _I thought I’d lost you again. How many times does that make? One more and we’ll get a free cup of coffee on the punch card.—_  Their teeth clack jarringly as they attack each other’s mouths and Sam accidentally catches the corner of one sharp canine against the split lip that he’d given Dean earlier that afternoon. _That afternoon_. God, it feels like it’s been weeks. Dean groans and grinds his hips down against his brother’s, but it still isn’t enough. He needs more.

He twists a hand into either side of Sam’s shirt and rips it right open, as hard as he can. Sam laughs—a little manically—at the romance novel cliché of it all, and Dean thinks it’s a good thing that his brother had decided to wear one of the ones that did up with snaps today because otherwise they’d never have been able to salvage it. Dean frantically rucks Sam’s t-shirt up to his chest and kneads his fingertips along the outline of his brother’s ribs, pressing down and dragging until he can feel the catch of the Enochian carved into the bone. Sam moans once he realizes what Dean is doing, and he brings his own hands up to mirror the action, slipping under Dean’s jacket and matching him move for move against his own sides.

“Dean, wait,” Sam pants, coming back to himself slightly. “We can’t—” He cuts off with a groan as Dean latches onto his neck, and then wriggles around, trying to bring his watch up to his face. “What time is it? How long were we out?”

Dean ignores his brother and uses the change in position to slide his way down Sam’s body, bypassing the very tempting bulge at Sam’s crotch to stroke down the length of his right leg instead. He curls a hand around Sam’s ankle, rests his forehead against his shin, and just breathes into the rough denim.

“It’s Monday,” Sam says incredulously. Then he laughs. “4am. It’s only been like twelve hours.”

“Magic of fucking time-travel,” Dean grumbles into Sam’s jeans. Then he moves back up to mouth over Sam’s tattoo, lifting his brother’s hand and placing it over his own heart in exchange. “Y’know, we should probably bury that stupid thing,” he says grudgingly. “Just to be safe.”

Sam hums distractedly and hooks his fingers into the shirt over Dean’s chest, yanking him up to his face. “Do we have time for sex first?” he asks breathily, nipping along the edge of Dean’s jaw.

“Doubt it,” Dean mutters back, but he doesn’t do a thing to sway Sam from his current (and extremely thorough) analysis of Dean’s neck. Then an impulsive, unwelcome thought crashes over him and he jerks away, terror like ice flooding his veins. “Wait—can that thing still jump us?” Dean pins the rather pathetic lump of steel with a nervous glare, half expecting it to suddenly leap at them or something. “You don’t think we’re still connected, do you?”

Sam shakes his head and pitifully tugs at him, trying to pull him closer. “I’m pretty sure it’s dead, man.” He arches up under Dean, trying to regain some of the earlier contact. “C’mon, just— _please_.”

Dean gazes down at Sam spread out beneath him—wanting and intense and oh, so grabby—and can’t quite hold back a smile. He brushes the flat of his hand down the side of Sam’s face and holds it there for a long moment. Then he leans forward and gathers his brother up in his arms. He squeezes tight, tucking his face into the curve of Sam’s neck and breathing in the scent of his hair, his skin, the faint hint of dust from the towering stacks of crates boxing them in on either side. Sam smells like home. The underlying backdrop of Dean’s entire life, Sam and gunpowder and whiskey and gasoline. He sighs and tightens his arms. Dean intends on staying just where he is for a good minute (or a good year), but then that nervous thrum starts up again under his skin and he has to pull away to check on the sword. It isn’t doing anything more menacing than smoking slightly, but it’s still freaking him out. “Hey, let’s just fucking bury it, okay?” Dean offers grumpily. “’Cause my skin’s not gonna stop crawling until that thing’s six feet under.”

His brother nods, sure of what they have to do even as he resists untangling himself from Dean. “Yeah,” Sam agrees reluctantly. “Plus, we should probably get out of here before someone comes strolling in to do inventory or something.” But he doesn’t move a muscle to free himself from their embrace.

So Dean has to do it. He takes one last moment to scan his eyes over Sam’s face, then unwillingly lugs himself to his feet and edges up to the hateful thing. It’s kind of a misshapen blob of melted silver by now, but when Dean nudges it with his foot it seems to stay pretty much intact, so he guesses that it’s cooled down enough to be touched. He pulls his bandana out and lets it flutter down over the hunk of metal, taking extreme care not to come into any contact with it, even now. Because Sam can hypothesize all he wants about it being dead, but Dean isn’t planning on taking _any_ chances. He wraps the thing up tight, making sure there’s no gaping in the fabric, and hefts it into his palm. It isn’t as heavy as he thought it would be. “Alright, Sammy,” Dean says, glancing back over his shoulder. “Whaddya say we blow this popsicle stand?”

They stumble themselves out of the armory, up over the fence, and back into the forest—though every step is made more complicated due to the fact that they can’t quite seem to let go of each other. Sam has latched onto his arm like a fucking limpet, and Dean’s fingers won’t unclench from Sam’s jacket, no matter what he tells them. It’s almost impossible to pick his way over the rugged terrain with Sam glued to his back like this, especially in the thick darkness, but Dean’s had plenty of practice maneuvering through tough situations with an extra two bucks and change weighing him down. At least Sam is conscious for this particular outing. Although, the way he’s moaning and grazing his teeth over the shell of Dean’s ear and dipping his fingers under the hem of Dean’s shirt to trace along the lines of his hips is definitely more distracting than if Sam was just dead weight over his shoulder.

Dean finally gets them far enough away from the base  _(What was it? Not Benning, that was the other one… **Custer** —that’s it)_ that he feels comfortable planting the lump of fuckery without having to worry about any amateur treasure hunters accidentally stumbling across it with a stupid metal detector or something. “Sammy, c’mon,” he says. “Right here. This is good, yeah?”

His brother drops to his knees with a rushed, “Yeah, okay,” and then starts clawing at the dirt like a damn dog. He scrabbles at the (thankfully not yet frozen) soil until he’s made a decently sized pocket in the ground cover, and then he practically shakes Dean’s hands out for him until the solid heap of what-used-to-be-a-sword tumbles down into the hole. Sam carelessly scrapes over the dirt with the sole of his boot until the ground looks somewhat even again, and Dean’s barely managed to stuff his bandana back in his jacket when his brother fucking tackles him. Sam jams him back against the trunk of the nearest tree and crushes his chest to Dean’s, pressing and groping anywhere he can reach. There are dense clumps of dirt stuck under Sam’s fingernails and still clinging to his hands, and he’s stroking his fingers everywhere. Over the corners of Dean’s eyes. The top of his chest. Sliding back to clutch at his ass. 

“Sammy. C’mon, man,” Dean manages to grind out, hating himself with every syllable. “Not here, okay? We’re in the middle of the freaking woods, dude.”

“God, Dean. Who cares?” Sam groans and presses a series of pleading kisses to the corner of his mouth. They’re almost adorably chaste compared to the dirty slide of his hands. “There’s no one here,” Sam says, way too persuasively. “Please. I need this.” Then he pulls back, just enough to stare Dean straight in the eye. Painfully earnest. “I need _you_.  _Please_.” And god, he begs so pretty.

Sam drops to his knees and sucks over the thick press of Dean’s cock, dampening the front of his jeans—and Dean chokes, nearly giving in then and there, wishing he could just drop to the dirt and let his brother do whatever he wanted to any part of him he could get at. But they’re still too close to the sword’s remains and that anxious buzz keeps itching along Dean’s nerves. “We just gotta get to the car,” he whines. “Okay, Sammy? So we can get out of the city. The car, and then you can paw at me all you want. Okay?” Dean is nearly blubbering with the conflicting feelings rocketing up and down his body, but something in his tone must be pathetic enough to catch Sam’s attention, because his brother pulls away with a pained whimper.

“Yeah, okay,” he finally says, like the words are being dragged through his teeth. His face is still pressed to the front of Dean’s fly. “Just to make sure,” he mumbles into the denim. “That’s smart. You’re smart.”

Dean takes a deep breath of the crisp, winter air, then lets it punch out of his lungs. The sky is softening atop a few, gray tendrils of morning light and Dean uses the sight to try and center himself. Focus.  _Breathe_. Sam gropes over the front of Dean’s chest, using the leverage of his shoulders to drag himself back to his feet and grinding up the length of Dean’s body the entire time. He makes it all the way up just to bury his face in the crook of Dean’s neck, and Dean can’t help but slip a hand up the back of Sam’s jacket in return, twisting his fingers into the shirts underneath. With every step, the underside of his wrist brushes against the warm skin at small of his brother’s back and Sam keeps letting out these warm, breathy little sighs against his collar. He’s probably just sniffing him or something—the weirdo—but Dean doesn’t really have it in him to complain.

They finally, _finally_ make it out of the forest and back to the Impala, and Dean nearly cries at the sight. She’s gleaming under the rising light of dawn, glossy and pristine like she’s been waiting just for him, and Dean almost breaks into a run to get to her quicker. But his fingers refuse to let go of Sam either, and he ends up smacking them both against the side door, one arm wrapped tight around Sam’s back and his forehead pressed to the cool, sleek metal of his beautiful Baby. He’s got Sam kind of awkwardly smushed up between him and the car, but thankfully his brother is content enough with the body contact that he allows Dean the moment. He fumbles with the lock for a minute (hands trembling more with relief than with cold), then yanks the door open and shoves Sam in through the driver’s side, not willing to wait the extra four seconds it would take for him to go around the long way.

Dean slides inside after his brother and jams his keys into the ignition before the door can even finish closing. Bob Seger blares out from the stereo as soon as the engine turns over and Dean starts cracking up, hand thrown over his face, because he’d forgot that he put a tape in earlier that afternoon. That they’d been listening to this on the way over. Sam uses the opening to plaster himself to Dean’s side, lips and teeth relentless against his neck and hands greedy over his thighs. Seger croons to them about his ‘Night Moves’ and Dean laughs again, because it’s too appropriate, and if he wasn’t already sitting down, his legs would have buckled under the onslaught. Sam is tugging at him now, nipping at that spot behind his ear, and whimpers of, “ _Dean_ ,” and, “ _please_ ,” are sliding from his lips every time he pulls far enough away to breathe.

“Sammy, I can’t,” he pants, still a little punchy. “I have to—” Sam palms at his still-damp crotch— _hard_ —and Dean jerks his head back against the bench seat with a violent whine. The manic, bubbly feeling evaporates and he chokes at the rush of heavy arousal that surges back in. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he pleads. “Just— Please.  _Please_.” He tangles a hand in his brother’s perfect, too-long hair and yanks him back until he can get at his mouth. Sam sobs into the kiss as Dean crushes their lips together ruthlessly. Rough isn’t usually his style, but he thinks Sam might be rubbing off on him, because he fucks his tongue into Sam’s mouth with all of the wild abandon his brother usually goes for. Dean mauls Sam until he’s gasping, then wrenches himself away before he can think better of it. “I have to get out of the city,” he croaks. “Okay? Just the city, man. Twenty minutes, tops. We won’t even cross the county line, I promise.”

Sam cuts off a strangled noise and shoves his face into the center of Dean’s chest. “Yeah, you’re right. Of course.” He burrows a little deeper, content to force Dean to have to drive around his gigantic head. “Sorry. Okay. Yeah.” And this is the closest thing to a blessing he’s gonna get, so Dean tugs down the parking brake and jams his foot against the gas pedal, screeching down the streets of Kalamazoo and pretending that every light he passes is a green one. Sam doesn’t call him on it. But to be fair, Sam’s not really looking.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

They make it into Portage, Michigan at around 6am, Dean’s lead foot shaving an extra five minutes off of his promised travel time. Sam had spent the entirety of the drive curled around his brother’s side and generally making as much of a nuisance of himself as possible. A tiny coil of worry at the back of his head had kept him dreading that Dean was going to keep driving until they hit water, so if Sam accidentally brushed the side of his hand over his brother’s crotch a time or seven, at least it meant that Dean was willing to pull over the first chance they got.

And just like Sam had been hoping, Dean viciously yanks the wheel into the lot of the first lodging they see. The Impala’s tires squeal as Dean runs them up under the unloading overhang, and then again as he jams his foot on the brake. He twists the engine off roughly and grabs at Sam’s face, pressing a firm kiss to his forehead. “Stay here,” Dean commands. He drags himself out the driver’s side, then leans his head back in for a final word. “I’m gonna go check us in. So just—don’t fucking move, okay?” He throws Sam a gorgeous grin, full of expectation and promise, and Sam can’t help but moan and drop his head back against the seat.

“If you’re in there longer than five minutes,” he warns, “then I’m coming in after you.”

Dean lets out a bark of a laugh, then jogs up to the glass doors of the motel office and in toward the reception desk.

Sam manages to hold still for an entire thirty-six seconds, before he can’t take it anymore and flings himself out the passenger door. There are a few families out and about already, pushing along strollers in the early morning light, and Sam knows he can’t make good on his previous threat. The large, glass doors of the office would do absolutely nothing to obscure the parking lot’s view of him and Dean, even if he waited until they were completely closed before mauling his brother the way he so desperately wants to. Of course, that’s assuming Dean would even allow the borderline pornographic display in front of the balding desk clerk. And Sam’s betting on that being a big, fat ‘No way in hell’. So instead, he just stands outside the car, too wired to get back inside the Impala and too chicken to go in after his brother.

He sweeps his gaze over the exterior of the building— _Byway Inn,_ the decal on the door proudly declares. It’s much nicer than the places they usually stay at. Whether that’s due to the zip code or just the fact that they literally pulled into the first possible turn-off they saw, Sam has no idea. It’s large for a motel, sprawling and double-storied, with purple columns spaced evenly along the bulky salmon complex. Short, well-trimmed hedges line the perimeter of the lot, and Sam wonders how much a room here is going to set back _Reginald Abernathy_. He rocks on the balls of his feet, antsy and turned on, and shoves his hands into his pockets. If Dean isn’t done soon, Sam just might start without him. Room or no room.

“Dude, I thought I told you to stay in the car,” a voice chuckles from behind him. Dean strides up close and Sam reaches out to run the backs of his fingers over his brother’s abdomen. Subtle. Mostly hidden by Dean’s jacket.

“You get a room?” he asks quickly. “Are we good?”

Dean laughs again and tucks a keycard into Sam’s palm. “Yeah. Room 110.” He raises a playful eyebrow. “You think you can last the ten second drive over, or do you wanna just fuck in the middle of the goddamn parking lot? In broad daylight?”

And Dean had to go and say it out loud. It’s not like it was any big secret, but Sam’s knees still buckle at the affirmation. “Dean, seriously,” he says. “Don’t even tempt me right now.”

His brother shoves him toward the Impala with a gentle squeeze to his hip. “C’mon, pal. Keep it together.” He ducks back into the car with a lascivious wink. “I promise it’ll be worth the wait.”

Sam clamps down on every shred of his self-control and folds himself back into the passenger side. He clenches his fists around the keycard in his lap, keeps his hands to himself, and holds perfectly still until Dean finally pulls into the parking spot directly in front of their room. Sam leaps out of his seat as soon as the engine cuts off, wrapping a hand in his brother’s jacket and tugging him out onto the curb. He slides the card into the lock, yanks it out, and then shoves Dean through the doorway without even sparing a thought for their bags still in the trunk.

The room is… _red_. Red bedspreads and red pillows and heavy, red curtains all in the exact same shade. Even the walls are mostly red, with an intersecting gold pattern repeating along the length of the wallpaper, and broken up only by a hint of cream wherever the surface is undecorated. Dean takes in the color scheme and the surprisingly fancy hardwood floors and the elegantly abstract wall art, then turns to Sam with a saucy grin. “Classy place, huh? See how I treat you right?”

And all of a sudden, the frenetic need of the moment before turns to complete stillness as Sam stares at his brother. Like they’ve slipped through into the eye of the hurricane. He’d missed Dean. _God_ , he’d missed him—even when he’d been right there beside him the entire time. Sam takes a few, purposeful strides forward and hauls his brother up to his lips. Dean immediately gives as good as he gets and Sam slides a hand around the back of his head, fingers winding through the short tufts of hair there. Dean melts into his grip and groans against his mouth, then tugs Sam backwards, both of them tripping over the striped armchair in the corner, until they finally manage to reach one of the beds.

They both strip out of their jackets and fling them out of the way. Dean yanks him down, trying to twist around until he’s on top, and Sam balks a little at the implied assumption. “Dean, c’mon,” he breathes against his brother’s lips. “Done way more than my fair share of catching these past few days. It’s totally your turn.”

And normally, that would be that. Neither of them is too particular about who goes where ever since they first started switching off, and a request like that usually gets immediate compliance from the other party. But Dean just grunts at his words and pushes more insistently. “Who says that’s what I feel like doing? Huh, Sammy?”

“Dude. What?” Sam pulls back to fix Dean with a look of disbelief. “C’mon, Dean. I was a fucking _girl_ for like a week. Stop being such a jerk, and turn over.”

“Sorry, princess,” Dean taunts insufferably. “I don’t think so.” His mouth twists into a sneer and he grazes his short fingernails up under Sam’s t-shirt and across his abs. “You wanna feel like a big man so bad? You’re gonna have to earn it.”

“What?” Sam says again, incredulously. Then he wraps his hands around Dean’s shoulders and pushes hard, trying to keep him on his back. “ _God_. Why do you have to be such an asshole all the time?”

“Only for you, baby,” Dean drawls, and then he’s launching up to latch onto Sam’s mouth.

Sam only sinks into the kiss for a second, but it’s long enough for Dean to regain the upper hand. He hooks an ankle behind Sam’s knee and swivels his hips hard, flipping Sam back onto the bed. Sam’s head bounces against the mattress and he snarls as he struggles to right himself, partly at the indignity of being pinned so easily and partly at the sinful curl of Dean’s tongue, wet and warm against his collarbone. Sam slithers a hand up his brother’s back to clutch at his short hair, yanking Dean’s head back and exposing the strong line of his throat. He nips at his Adam’s apple, wraps his other arm tight around Dean’s waist, and _pushes_ —trying to overpower his brother with sheer force alone, because of the two of them, Sam _is_ physically stronger. Unfortunately, Dean has always been the better wrestler. 

Plus, he fights dirty.

Dean seems to sense that he’s losing ground, and growls as he digs his heels against the wood floor for leverage. It isn’t enough, and Sam is slowly but surely gaining momentum. He takes a foolish moment to congratulate himself on his ensured victory, but then Dean gets a wicked glint in his eye and snakes his hand out lightning-fast to cup Sam’s balls, squeezing tight. Sam’s knees buckle and he throws his head back with a moan as Dean continues to palm at his crotch. He can’t do much but writhe under his brother’s unceasing attack, fireworks sparking up his body as Dean moves his hand up to tease at the head of his cock through his jeans.

Dean uses Sam’s moment of weakness to rid him of as many articles of clothing as he can reach. He rips off his button up, then yanks at his v-neck so forcefully that Sam can hear one of the seams pop in the collar. Dean manages to shuck all the layers off of Sam’s upper body, still groping at his dick the entire time, and Sam has to fight back a sudden smile as he decides on his next strategy. He abruptly goes limp, melting into the bed beneath him and even letting out an exaggerated whimper for show. Dean smiles as he takes the bait like a sucker, sliding up to blanket Sam’s body with his own, and Sam waits until his brother’s guard is completely down before tensing his thighs and surging upwards—catching Dean by surprise and knocking him flat onto the bed across the way. Dean laughs in grudging disbelief and Sam smiles against his skin, leaning over to mouth up the edge of his jaw in victory.

“Ready to admit defeat?” Sam purrs into the shell of Dean’s ear. He chuckles and nips at the lobe as Dean grumbles underneath him.

“You’re a fucking cheater,” his brother complains into the curve of his neck.

“Yeah, whatever. ‘All’s fair’ and so on.” Sam grins and readies himself for his brother’s next attempt at an attack. Because Dean’s about as subtle as a kangaroo in steel-toed boots.

Dean pushes off with his shoulders and twists a certain way and all of a sudden, Sam’s back seizes up on him. The muscle twinges painfully and he lets out an unexpected yelp and Dean instantly goes lax. He jerks up a gentle hand to stroke over Sam’s back and gives him a concerned frown. “What happened?” he asks urgently. “Did I do that? You okay?” He relaxes back, submitting completely without any of the fight from before, and Sam gets irrationally pissed that he didn’t earn the win.

“I’m fine. I swear.” He presses a quick kiss to his brother’s mouth, trying to coax Dean back to their earlier tussling. “Really. It’s just from the LARPing.” Sam tosses him an amused smile. “I told you my back was killing me, remember?”

His brother’s lips twitch at the reminder, but he hesitates for another second. “You sure you’re good?”

Sam rolls his eyes and slams their mouths together again, attempting to bring back the mood. “Good enough to kick your ass.”

“Attaboy,” Dean murmurs proudly.

And like a light suddenly flicking on, Sam belatedly realizes what’s really going on here. All of his brother’s dick posturing is just that. Meaningless posturing. Dean isn’t doing any of this for himself. He’s doing it for _Sam_. He’s trying to make sure that Sam is strong enough to hold his own. Because he’s probably still a little traumatized by the extent of Sam’s injuries back in that barn and unwilling to admit it. Sam has to shake off a smile as he begins to understand. It’s just so _Dean_. Pretending to be an asshole to mask the mushy sincerity behind his actions. Sam grins. He probably shouldn’t put too fine a point on the issue though. Mostly, he thinks that Dean just kinda likes that he can manhandle him a little.

And who is Sam to disappoint his brother? He leans back on his heels, closes a hand around Dean’s calf, and yanks his entire body closer in one fluid movement. Dean lets out a quiet little sound in the back of his throat and Sam smiles against his brother’s temple, victory rightly earned. He drapes himself down over Dean, flush against his side with a leg thrown over his brother’s hips. Then Sam wraps a hand around the nape of Dean’s neck and lets his brother shift up until they’re mostly side-by-side. Maybe it’s a tie after all. All Sam knows is that he’s finding it really hard to care at the moment because those are _Dean’s_ actual fingers notching between the knobs of his spine.  _Dean’s_ lips dragging whispers over the column of his throat. That’s _Dean’s_ thigh hitched up between his legs and pressing insistently at the swell of his groin.

Off. _Off_ , he wants everything off. Needs to see Dean, all of him. Every single part. _Everything_. The small cluster of freckles high on his inner thigh. The swell of his biceps. His tattoo. Sam takes a breath. He needs to see Dean’s tattoo. He strips Dean out of his over shirt like a man on a mission and then tugs his t-shirt over his head just enough that he can twist it up behind him, knotting it tight and trapping his brother’s arms behind his back. Dean lets out an indignant sound and struggles against the bindings for a half-hearted moment, but his eyes are dark and his hips keep shifting in little pulses up against Sam’s inner thigh.

Sam slides a hand down his brother’s chest, feeling Dean’s heart race under his broad palm, and looks his fill. Dean is tanner after Purgatory, and Sam’s still slightly torn up about it. Because, yeah his brother looks damn good with a little color, but it’s also just more physical proof of Sam’s failures, along with the unfair smattering of scars that he can’t recognize. Dean was trapped in that hellhole, alone and scared and fighting for a whole fucking year.  _Well, not **alone** —_his brain reminds him unhelpfully, and he shoves the jealousy away. _Never again._ Sam promises himself. He’ll die, first. He’d make sure of that. Sam will drag himself to the ends of the Earth next time, even toss himself over the edge if he needs to. Anything it takes. He presses a long kiss to Dean’s sternum and makes a solemn vow to never let his brother down again. No matter the consequences.

And maybe Dean’s rubbing off on him because Sam is feeling uncommonly tender all of a sudden, which is definitely more his brother’s _modus operandi_ than his own. He slowly drags his thumb along the crease of Dean’s hip, encased in rough denim, and then skims down the curve of his thigh until he reaches his boot. Sam kneels over his brother’s shins as he reverently undoes the laces and can’t help but remember how their positions had been reversed only a day ago. Or—what felt like a day ago, anyway. Sam finally gets both boots off, letting them thump to the hardwood floor below, and reaches back up to tug Dean’s jeans down his legs, feeling too strange and raw to look his brother in the eye right now.

Sam curls his fingers into the waistband of Dean’s shorts, freeing his cock and stretching back up to wrap his hand around the length of it. Dean is blood-warm and achingly familiar in his palm—like they fit together in every single way possible—and he groans as his hips stutter up against Sam’s leg still pinning him to the mattress. The frantic urge from before has completely dissipated, and now, Sam just wants everything to _last_. He tightens his hand slightly, unsure and feeling weirdly adrift until Dean slides a hand up over his bare shoulder and around the back of his neck (he must have slipped his ties while Sam was distracted), tugging Sam down and grounding him again with a deliberate kiss.

Sam sighs into Dean’s mouth and resumes his movements, more familiar with the intricacies of his brother’s dick than he is with the back of his own hand. He drags a few long, steady strokes along the largest vein on the underside, then brings his fingers up to tease under the rim of the head, and Dean chokes back another groan at his touch, clenching his fingers hard around Sam’s bicep. Sam drops his head down to rest against his brother’s hip and focuses on where they’re connected, watching the slick glide of Dean’s cockhead through his loose fist intently.

Dean’s cock is a little shorter and a little thicker than Sam’s, and they’d had a ridiculously stupid fight about it, years ago. Because they’re roughly the same length—and Winchester genes are pretty impressive—but Sam knows for a fact that he’s got a good inch or so on his brother. He’d offhandedly mentioned it once and Dean, true to form, had thrown a miniature hissy fit, blatantly refusing to agree and insisting that they were the exact same size. And when Sam had (half-jokingly) offered to pull out a goddamned ruler if Dean was so sure, his brother had spewed a litany of painful mockery at him until he’d finally agreed to drop it. Forever.

Sam chuckles a little at the memory and Dean raises up on his elbows to stare at him. “Dude, you better not be laughing at my dick.”

“ _Please_ ,” Sam grins. “Your dick’s the only thing about you I take seriously.”

Dean chews over his words for a moment before dropping back to the bed. “You know what?” he says. “I’m actually okay with that.” 

Sam smiles again, too sappy and too sincere, and brushes his unoccupied hand down the side of Dean’s face and over the light scrape of his stubble. His fingers trail across the subtle cleft in his brother’s chin, the one that Sam knows matches his own. It’s one of the very few features that he can find reflected on his own face. It should freak him out a little ( _or a lot)_. This inescapable reminder of their shared genetics—physical proof that they’re related, that what they do together is _incest_.  _That_ word, the big one, spelled out in big flashing warning lights or slashed across a headline in guilty red ink. But it doesn’t bother him anymore. It hasn’t for a long, long time. And Sam feels more _right_ , here with his flesh and blood brother in all of his entirety, than he did with any of those strangers’ bodies that Dean had been wearing.

“Hey,” Dean says softly. “C’mere.” Sam blinks back to awareness to find Dean staring at him with an amused expression, and then also realizes that he’s the only one still wearing pants. “You keep spacing out,” Dean mocks. “It’s like getting a hand job from the ‘Deep Thoughts’ guy.”

Sam snorts as he crawls up his brother’s body. “Ew.”

“Exactly. So quit it.” Dean grins at him, but his words are purely teasing. He waits until Sam has gotten within grabbing distance, then reaches out to brush a hand through his hair, circling his thumb against the arch of his cheekbone. “Dazzled by my good looks?” Dean asks obnoxiously. “Happens to the best of ‘em, y’know.”

“Scared stiff by your ugly mug, more like,” Sam teases, but he lets his brother strip him out of his jeans.

Dean doesn’t even bother to remove his boxer-briefs, just slips his hand into his fly to tug Sam’s dick into his calloused palm. “Something’s _stiff_ alright,” he leers, and Sam groans—more at the terrible pun than the perfect, obscene slide of his brother’s hand.

“That was awful,” Sam pants out, and drops his head to rest against Dean’s shoulder. He starts jacking his brother again. “I’m embarrassed to even know you.”

Dean tightens his grip in response and Sam keens, faltering for only a moment before flicking the pad of his thumb over Dean’s slit. His brother makes a strangled noise and Sam grins triumphantly, then shoves his hips closer, trying to gain as much contact as humanly possible. Dean’s hands are stoking a white-hot fire throughout his body and somehow, oxymoronically, his touch is the soothing balm for the burn just as much as it is the initial propellant. Sam lets out a hitched breath and grits his teeth against the overbearing thrum of pleasure, the arousal intensifying without coming to a head, like some kind of never-ending feedback loop. And god fucking dammit, it is so unfair what Dean can do with his stupid hands. And with his stupid everything else.  

When Sam eventually manages to drag his head up and sneak a glance, his brother looks insufferably pleased with himself. His face is highlighted by the rays of pale morning light slipping past the sheer under-curtains, and his eyes glow bright like moss whenever the sun manages to catch them. Sam tries to scoff at Dean’s unbelievable ego, but the sound just ends up turning into a clenched moan halfway out of his throat. Sam jerks his head back down, because he’s going to blow his load if he keeps looking at his brother’s unfairly perfect face, and he’s decided that he wants to win this race. There’s a wet smear of precome shining against the lower side of Dean’s abdomen that’s entirely Sam’s fault, and he smiles. It’s okay because he’s allowed. Dean is just as much him as he is. And there are parts of Sam that he knows belong to his brother far more than they belong to himself.

And like a sudden hook deep in his gut, that thought is what propels him over the line. Sam can feel the lust surge up at the back of his spine, and he makes a half-hearted attempt to hold out for longer, but there’s no point. Everything looks like Dean and smells like Dean and _feels_ like Dean, and Sam’s hips buck forward as his orgasm is ripped out of him, along with another ragged moan. “Dean,” he gasps—his brother’s name having escaped his lips without any permission from his brain—and then his hips stutter once more until the fire racing up and down his body finally burns itself to embers.

Dean looks stupid proud of himself, but Sam doesn’t even care any more. He drags himself over his brother, blanketing him with his body and stripping Dean’s dick until he’s gasping on every breath. “Oh god, _Sammy_ ,” he pants out. Dean clenches his eyes shut and the tendons in his neck strain as he grinds his head against the mattress.

Sam leans down to press a hard kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Look at me,” he whispers.

And Dean immediately obeys. His eyes snap open and his pupils focus on Sam’s and then he’s gasping even harder, letting out a strangled cry as he shoots off into Sam’s hand. Sam keeps his gaze locked between them even as he strokes Dean all the way through his orgasm, making sure that he catches every single second of his brother coming apart beneath him. Every tremble of his hands, every twitch of his eyelids, every minute clench of his jaw.

Dean finally slumps back, rung dry and spent. He makes a satisfied rumbling noise, then squirms a little and digs his shoulder into Sam’s chest. “Dude, get off. You weigh a fucking ton.” Sam just shushes him and curls tighter, pressing his face into Dean’s hair. And his brother must not really mind all that much because he brings a hand up to stroke over Sam’s back, soothing and repetitive. “You’re like a giant girl, you know that?” he grumbles affectionately. “A big, irritating girl who wants to cuddle all the damn time.”

Sam closes his eyes and smiles. As far as he’s concerned, Dean can insult him all he wants as long as he’s doing it in his own voice. “You wouldn’t believe how much I restrain myself,” he says sarcastically. “You’re lucky I have to take breaks in order to eat and sleep.”

His brother makes a scoffing sound underneath him and brushes his lips across Sam’s shoulder. “You say that like you’re kidding, but you ain’t fooling me.”

Sam laughs and nestles closer, enjoying his brother’s warmth contrasted against the morning chill. Then he suddenly tenses as the reality of their situation filters back to him.

“What is it?” Dean cranes his head back, concerned about the rapid mood shift. “Sam?”

Sam raises himself to his arms, still bent over his brother’s torso. “Shit, I forgot.” Dean folds an elbow behind his head and gives him an expectant look until he explains. “Ocampo,” Sam clarifies. “I didn’t even think— He just got away. Maybe.” He frowns. “Do you think?”

Dean worries at his lower lip as he answers carefully. “Someone must have seen the fire eventually,” he says diplomatically. His jaw is tense, like it’s tough for him to think about the kids’ bodies that must still be somewhere among the charred ruins.

“Yeah,” Sam says, lost in the worrisome slant of his thoughts. “Yeah, I guess.” He winces as he remembers the state he left Ocampo in. “Plus, it was sure to raise a few questions whenever he stumbled in somewhere.”

Dean lifts an eyebrow. “The hell's that supposed to mean?”

“Oh. I—uh, took out one of his eyes.” Dean looks surprisingly impressed. “And his knee. And his nose.” Sam cringes a little. “And most of his teeth…”

His brother snorts. “ _Damn_ , kiddo.” He fondly tucks a hanging strand of hair behind Sam’s ear. “No worries, then,” he says reassuringly. “Carnage like that is gonna be suspicious as fuck. They’re not idiots over there. Palmer’s gonna figure it out no problem.” Sam hums, distracted, and Dean catches his gaze. “You wanna look into it just to make sure? Maybe check some of the local papers?”

“Not really,” Sam murmurs honestly. Dean nods like he plans on respecting his request, but Sam knows his brother will skim over a few headlines in secret the very first chance he gets.

Sam’s still preoccupied with worry and his brother must pick up on the onset gloom because he rocks his hips up playfully where they’re still flush. “Y’know, I fucking _told_ you it was Ocampo. You gonna apologize for insulting my detective skills?”

A small laugh bubbles out of Sam’s throat, lifting his spirits despite himself. “Nuh-uh, absolutely not. You thought it was _Jordan_ too.” He sinks down to his elbows and rests his forehead against his brother’s, grinning. “Hell, you thought it was an _aswang_ , man. No way you get credit for the collar just by shotgun blasting accusations at everyone in the vicinity.”

“Say it,” Dean orders. “Say ‘Dean Winchester is the world’s greatest detective’.”

“Dean Winchester has an ego the size of Manhattan,” Sam parrots dutifully, and his brother growls as he tightens his legs and twists, flipping Sam underneath him. And Sam is still fighting back an uncharacteristic case of the giggles as Dean covers his mouth with his own, kissing him thoroughly and sweeping his tongue across Sam’s bottom lip before he pulls away with one last nip of his teeth. He leans back on his haunches and levels an amused glance at where Sam’s dick is still hanging out of his shorts and Sam suddenly, _fiercely_ doesn’t want him to leave yet.

Dean stretches over the edge of the bed, groping for his discarded clothes, and Sam hastily tucks himself back into his underwear as he scrambles for anything that could get his brother to stay a little longer. Dean grumbles as he manages to round up his earlier get-up, probably annoyed that he has to wear the same dirty outfit again, since Sam had rushed them into the room before they could grab the rest of their bags. He slides on his boxers and jeans entirely before Sam is able to think of anything.

“You were ready to die in there,” Sam says quietly. His brother shifts like a 6’1 deer in the headlights and his hands still over his fly. “You wanna tell me what that was about?”

Dean’s lips move for half a second, but nothing comes out. Probably an automatic complaint over the too-intense moment, but it dies before it can even make it out of his throat. Dean needs this just as much as he does.

“You weren’t actually planning on giving up, right?” Sam nudges forward on his knees and trails a hand down his brother’s spine. “That was just the curse talking… Right, Dean?” 

Dean pauses for just a half-second too long. “’Course that’s what it was.” He flicks his eyes up. “What about you?” he asks, overly nonchalant.

Sam imagines the disappointment in his brother’s gaze, then lies through his teeth. “Yeah. Same.”

“Right. Okay. Good.” Dean finishes zipping up his jeans and breaks away from Sam’s touch, heading over to the wide mirror on the other end of the room. He runs a washcloth under the sink embedded in the long counter and wipes it over the aftermath of their mingled come, which is now flaking as it dries across his chest and side. “That enough ‘sharing and caring’ time for today?” he asks, scrubbing at his bare torso. “Or is there more?” Sam stretches down to close a hand around Dean’s over shirt and pulls it up into his lap. His brother will have to come back over if he wants to finish getting dressed. Dean lifts his head back up as soon as he’s clean enough by whatever whore’s bath guidelines he’s currently following, and then sighs. “Dude.” He lifts an eyebrow once he spots his shirt. “ _Seriously?”_

“Did you mean what you said back there in Minnesota?” Sam asks hesitantly. “Do you really want a home?”  

His brother freezes in place and a multitude of emotions rapidly flicker across his face. Sam can make out the slow movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallows determinedly. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean lies terribly. So Sam clenches his jaw and deliberately stuffs Dean’s shirt back behind the gap of the headboard and mattress. “Sam, c’mon!” he says loudly. “What are you, _four?”_  

“You gonna be honest with me?” he asks flatly.

Dean makes a sour face, then caves. “Where in fuck’s name are we gonna get a home? Seriously, the fire department should just follow us around. Probably make their jobs easier.”

“We could.”

“No, Sam,” he says grimly. “We couldn’t.” And that’s that. Discussion over. Dean’s moment of temporary vulnerability relegated to the _Pit of Things We Don’t Ever Talk About_. So Sam reluctantly lets the issue drop, and Dean stalks over to him to fish his shirt out of the crevice between bed and wall. And apparently, he isn’t _that_ pissed because he curls an affectionate hand over Sam’s shoulder for leverage.

Sam leans into the touch and lets himself imagine it for one moment. Just a moment. Dean drinking coffee from a mug that he actually _owns,_ in a real kitchen, with a stove and everything. Maybe he’d even have a cheesy robe or novelty pajamas or some other unnecessary frivolity that other normal people tended to own. He’d hum along to stupid rock music while he did the dishes and he’d curl up around Sam each night in an actual bed, with no terrifying motel surprises hidden in the box springs or waiting to be revealed under a black light, and Sam would wake up to his brother’s drowsy smile every morning for the rest of his life. And Dean is _terrible_ to share a bed with—he kicks in his sleep like a midfielder—but Sam would take it in an instant. He wouldn’t even need to be asked twice.

Sam shakes his head ruefully as he surfaces from his fairytale. It’s an utterly ridiculous notion and it would never work out, Dean would be climbing the walls within a week. Bills to sort through, and vegetables to garden, and no monsters to hunt? He’d probably end up letting a hodag loose on the neighbor’s pets just to have something to chase after. But Sam drifts into his stupid little daydream anyway, lets it flicker warmly against his soul. A dog and a house and safety, and the one person he loves more than anyone else in the world.

Sam’s brain suddenly cracks open, like a fault line ripping itself apart during an earthquake—and a host of missing pieces all shove themselves into place along the lining of his skull.  _He’d never had that with Amelia_. Well, no—that’s not right. He’d _had_ it, but it wasn’t there. Like some kind of messed up equation, where he’d had all the raw materials, but they’d refused to add up correctly. The dog and the house and the job and the bills and the _normal;_ empty and meaningless without the one thing that really mattered— _His_ _brother_.

Because why would Sam want a dog if he couldn’t watch Dean grumpily fall in love with it against all of his best efforts? What was the point of a house if Dean wasn’t the one to rebuild the deck when it started to sag? Or patch up the leaky roof, complaining the entire time? Who cared about a job or bills if they weren’t spending the money on cheap rotgut and bad movies and terrible cock rock records? What good was _normal_ if Dean wasn’t there every step of the way? To make fun of him over his shoulder? To remind him that it was overrated, and who cared as long as they had each other? That’s what had been missing from the entire last year of Sam’s life. _Love_. And it’s almost stupidly embarrassing that it took him this long to realize it. Because no matter what he’d tried with Amelia, it wasn’t something he could clinically piece together from the scraps of ordinary life that he’d observed from the other side of a moving car window. Some pitiful attempt at: Man + Woman + Picket Fence = Happy Ending. And for all of his accusations back in Blue Earth that Dean was the one ‘playing house’, what had Sam been doing if not the exact same thing?

He hadn’t loved Amelia. Oh _god_. He’d _never_ loved her. He’d used her as a cheap replacement for his brother—a temporary stopper to plug the hole inside of him while Dean was gone, and then he’d left her in his dust the minute Dean showed up again. Just like always. The same way he’d done with Ruby. The same way he’d _done with…_

Sam’s stomach sours and he can’t finish the thought.  ** _No._** _No, it’s not— There’s no way. Not that time. It wasn’t like that…_

But it was. And he knows it’s true. Sam takes a stuttering breath, and then he feels himself shatter into a million little pieces. His brother has finally managed to extricate his shirt from behind the bed and he slips it on just as Sam clamps his arms around Dean’s middle and presses his face against his stomach.

Dean jerks at the unexpected embrace until he catches his balance, and then awkwardly hovers his hand over Sam’s shoulders. “C’mon, dude. What the hell?”

“Just shut up for a second, okay?”

And something in Sam’s tone must come through, because the irritation drops right out of Dean’s voice and he instantly shifts into big brother mode. “Hey, what’s up?” he asks softly. He smoothes a palm over the back of Sam’s head. “Sammy, what is it?”

And Sam just lets out a pained laugh. Because he can’t say it. He’s not allowed to. Dean’s stupid, unspoken mandate from on high. _The first rule of Fight Club is: you don’t talk about being in love with your brother. The second rule of Fight Club is: **you don’t talk about being in love with your brother.**_  But Dean knows anyway, no matter how much he pretends not to, and Sam just squeezes tighter. “I just need a minute,” he rasps quietly. “Okay?”

Dean lets his hand still, warm against the nape of his neck. “Sure, man.” He wraps his other arm around Sam’s back, steady and familiar. “Anything you need.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

 

Sam had, apparently, finally gotten tired of lounging around in nothing but his socks and underwear. After his brother’s impromptu and weirdly unexpected hug attack, Dean had been reluctant to comment on Sam’s new and sudden desire to laze about half-naked in fear that it would set him off into another strange cuddle fit. But after another half-hour of no immediate breakdowns, he had just chalked it up to Sam still being weird about the whole body-switching thing. Plus, it’s not like Dean wasn’t reaping the benefits of Sam’s arbitrary choice in attire (or lack thereof). Hell, as far as he’s concerned, Sam can walk around bare-ass naked anytime he wants. Dean’s never been a man to turn down free eye-candy and if his brother wants to be the one to pony up, he ain’t gonna complain. The only thing being that it’s still the middle of January in Michigan, and after a certain amount of time, he’d got kind of worried about Sam’s extremities. But his brother had eventually decided to layer up before he could lose any important bits to frostbite, and the brown corduroy of his shirt was now snugly buttoned up all the way over his chest.

Dean frowns and checks for any body-switching weirdness of his own, like poking at a sore tooth. He can feel the frantic yearning for contact as if it were a tangible thing—reaching out from the center of his chest, desperate to wrap around Sam and pull him closer, to keep him safe and never let go. So…no different from normal then. Dean sniffs and shoves the underlying background neediness back down where it belongs.

He glances around the room and wonders if it’s worth it to brave the cold to retrieve their bags from Baby’s trunk, then decides against it. It’s weird. He feels like he should be tired. He’s practically been exhausted for the past two weeks straight, and now it’s like he’s perfectly fine. They just ran six cases in rapid-fire succession. Seven, if he wanted to count the fairy thing with Charlie. So if anyone has a right to be beat, it’s them. But Dean stills feels like he’s just had a solid couple nights’ sleep.

“Hey, Sam.” He pads over to where his brother is seated on the edge of the bed, slipping on his boots. “Are you tired?”

Sam blinks a bit as he ponders the question, then makes a face. “Not really. You?”

“Nah.” Dean scratches at his stomach distractedly. “Not really.”

Sam huffs out an amused breath. “That a bad thing?”

“I don’t know.” Dean sinks down onto the other bed and hooks an ankle around Sam’s. “It’s weird, right?”

His brother smiles. “Gift horse? Mouth?” He gets his boots all the way on and stretches across to slant his lips gently over Dean’s. “Either of those ringing any bells?” he asks teasingly.

Dean snorts and playfully grabs at Sam’s chin. “Dunno, man. I feel like every time I ignore a gift horse, it ends up turning around and biting me on the ass.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” Sam says, blatantly humoring him.

“I know, right?” Dean waggles his eyebrows. “It’s one of my best features.”

Sam grins way too wide in response. “Absolutely,” he says innocently. “Matches your personality.”

Dean rolls his eyes and digs his thumb into his brother’s side. “Har-dee-fucking-har, Sam.”

“Are you really that worried, man?” Sam strolls over to the room’s quasi-half-bath and tugs at a clean washcloth, apparently intent on removing the last lingering traces of dust from the armory. He runs his burned palm under the cold faucet and Dean glances down at the matching one in his lap. The red has mostly faded by now and it only stings a little when Dean clenches his hand. 

“I’m worried about everything right now,” he admits grumpily, raising his voice over the running of the faucet. “I’m twitchy as hell. All this goddamn time-travel bullshit’s got me jumping at shadows.” He glances at both of the beds. They hadn’t managed to even get under the coverlet of either one, despite their grappling, and neither of them looks anything worse than innocently rumpled. Well—innocently rumpled and very, very _bright_ _red_. “Swear to god, Sammy,” he starts up again. “We run into anything else stupid in the next couple weeks, and I’m gonna blow a freaking gasket. I’m serious, man. I get the slightest whiff of time-travel, and my fist’s gonna go square into the closest face.”

Sam chuckles under his breath, and swipes the damp washcloth over his forehead. “Don’t worry, Dean. I promise I’ll protect you from any more scary swords.”

“Laugh it up, chuckles. I’m gonna toss you at the next one.” Sam catches his eyes in the mirror and Dean can’t help but grin. “Alright,” he hedges. “Maybe I’ll just nudge you a bit in that general direction.”

His brother smirks and turns back to his reflection in the mirror. “My ass too good to spare?”

Dean spreads his hands and shrugs. “Hey, I’m tapping that ass. It’s a fairly important ass.”

“God, you know what I want more than anything right now?” Sam drops his washcloth and twists around to rest a hip against the wide counter.

“My cock?”

“Pancakes.”

Dean quirks an eyebrow. “What, seriously? You’re actually hankering for real food? Not just a bowl of fruit or some shit?”

Sam ignores his teasing like a pro and turns back to the sink, but conspicuously pauses halfway to the faucet. “Hey, Dean,” he asks, weirdly sincere out of nowhere. “Hypothetically speaking, would you know how to fix a sagging deck?”

Dean just blinks at his brother. “That is the weirdest question you’ve ever asked me, man.”

Sam fixes him with a peeved look. “I’m serious. Just answer the question.”

“Okay, Murdock,” Dean says patronizingly, “don’t get your panties in a bunch. Yes, I can fix a deck.” He makes a face. “Why the fuck does it matter?”

Sam gets a faint, dumb little smile on his face and goes back to the faucet for real, twisting the knob and running his hands under the water. “No reason.”

“You’re a real weirdo, Sammy, you know that?”

“Yeah, but you like me anyway,” he says pleasantly.

“Yeah,” Dean admits grudgingly. He shakes his head and goes to scoop up his boots. “God help me, I do.” He lets the heavy soles thump against the dark wood of the closet door, then heads over to the striped armchair so he can do up the laces. “If you don’t finish your pancakes, I’m eating the rest of them.”

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Titles taken from Rush's "Fly By Night"


End file.
